


Bringing Him Back

by Dangersocks



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Bondage, Brainwashing, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Medication, Multi, Non-Consensual Bondage, Past Abuse, Recovery, Stockholm Syndrome, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2587889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/pseuds/Dangersocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.” - Pascal Mercier, <i>Night Train to Lisbon</i></p><p>Now that he is home, Cecil is never returning to that place. He has left things behind, though. He does not yet know how to bring them back...</p><p>(A story about Cecil and Carlos, during Jathis' "Bringing Them Back.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jathis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jathis/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bringing Them Back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2362721) by [Jathis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jathis/pseuds/Jathis). 



 

Cecil clings to the steering wheel like a lifeline. He would rather cling to other things -- Carlos, or himself, or Earl -- but he can't. He avoids using the rearview mirrors. It is not because of old fears. Seeing _that_ forsaken city grow smaller behind them is not a relief. He is leaving someone behind.

 

Carlos stares at the reflective glass, just as agitated. He, too, is leaving someone behind.

 

Cecil clenches his hands into fists. He hears the wheel creak and feels his wrists twinge where the skin is damaged. He is no longer cuffed and yet he knows he is still helpless.

 

“If I’m good,” Carlos quietly starts, still watching the mirrors. He has not taken his eyes away from them. “Can we end this trip early?”

 

Cecil would howl in answer. He feels the sound swelling in his gullet, eager to lay waste to any composure and rationalism he has left. He longs to replace the wheel in his hands with Carlos’ t-shirt, shaking sense into the other. Cecil knows about the pills in Carlos’ pocket. He knows about secret instructions relayed by...by... _KEVIN_. He knows he should not rip out Earl’s phone and call back with more deals. Let them have Cecil, the Voice, if they can only bring Earl home.

 

And he remembers Earl’s instructions and how Cecil had _promised_ to protect Carlos _first_. When Carlos asks again, a little more desperate, Cecil does not howl. He relies on what he knows, as all Night Valeans know:

 

Cecil lies.

 

“If you’re good, Carlos, you can go back sooner.”

 

That seems to satisfy one of them.

 

\--

 

The sign proclaiming Night Vale’s town limits is covered in bullet holes and NRA stickers. Cecil begrudgingly pulls the car to the side of the road as the setting sun rumbles and casts their shadow into a stretch. “I need to make a phone call.”

 

Carlos watches him. “To Master? Can I talk to him?”

 

Forcing his mouth into a placating frown, Cecil says, “I...I bet he is…” _oh Spire_. “...busy. And talking for too long will interrupt his...the things he must do. I’m sorry Carlos, but no.”

 

His passenger considers, then nods with less reluctance. “Master always has important things to do.”

 

Cecil cuts the thought off with a slamming door, stepping out into the desert as he fumbles for the phone in his pocket. He has never ignored Carlos before but…

 

The cell clatters to the ground. He scoops it up, still sore from recent abuses. He hates that the pants fit perfectly, but that they belong to his wretched double. He hates that Earl has configured the number needed as the first option that pops up. Earl had likely memorized the digits as he and Kevin had driven to Kevin's house, negotiating this awful deal. It will be confirmed the moment Cecil presses ‘send’. There will be no taking anything back.

 

Glancing at the car as it waits, the radio host can see Carlos hunched over something. He thinks again of confiscating the pills, but Cecil is tired. He’s shaky and weak. He cannot afford to exert himself in a fight. He cannot be sure he will win, and if Carlos chooses, he may very well overpower his forgotten boyfriend and drive himself back to where he wants to be.

 

The car has a sticker in the window. ‘My Scouts are Eternal and Can Kill Your Scouts.’

 

Cecil used to be that strong. He used to be as prepared as Earl Harlan. He dials the number.

 

It rings once before an answer.

 

“Cecil?”

 

His insides might be full of loose parts. They shake free at Earl’s voice. “Oh Masters, Earl, I don’t think I can do --”

 

A clattering on the other end indicates a transfer of hands. A muffled hiss or growl competes with the static of the sun. It is sinking below the earth and the world is washed in red. Cecil remembers crimson radio booths.

 

He hears a slick, “Is this the spoiled princeling?”

 

Cecil’s eyes sting. Gravity is restored in his core with a suddenness that leaves everything falling. He is in Night Vale and no longer trapped by this man, this...this _THING_. And Cecil’s voice is strangely hollow when he says, “We’re home.”

 

Is it possible to hear a smile?

  
Kevin says nothing more. The connection dies as the world goes black and the void takes over.


	2. Chapter 2

Cecil drives.

 

First he pockets the phone. It is Earl’s, and when Earl returns…

 

Cecil drives.

 

He climbs back into the car and maybe Carlos asks what Master had to say. Cecil cannot hear. He brings life to the engine, aware that it answers at his beck and call. At the turn of a key, which Cecil controls. He continues to ignore Carlos as he pressures his foot on the gas and tears onto the lonely highway.

 

Cecil drives.

 

He drives fast. He drives at speeds not recommended. He drives at a pace the ghost lights would be tempted to race. He tears into town passed two stop signs, and then a light. When a semaphore flag skips off of the windshield and Carlos grabs his arm, Cecil is aware that there are unmarked police vehicles surrounding them.

 

Cecil drives.

 

“You’re not wearing your seatbelt!” Carlos yells, clutching to his own securing harness.

 

Cecil wants to explain that he is never wearing his seatbelt again. He doesn’t want anything constraining him. But then he knows better. He wishes he could have Carlos explain why the harness is important in times of great speed and much violence. He thinks of Earl tied down and loving it.

 

He thinks of Earl.

 

Cecil...

 

He slows the vehicle, signaling his intentions for a parking lot. It will hold the massive amount of police vehicles. It is lit by a glowing red Arby’s sign.

 

When the car stops and Cecil rolls down his window, the Sheriff himself approaches.

 

“Officer,” he greets.

 

“Mr. Palmer. Please step out of the vehicle.”

 

Cecil nods, killing the engine.

 

Carlos is still holding Cecil’s arm. “Cecil,” he whispers. “Were you bad?”

 

The Sheriff is patiently listening. Watching. Cecil carefully extracts his limb from the scientist, murmuring, “Only a little. This might prolong our trip. But just a short while.”

 

“Not too long?”

 

Cecil glances at their observer.

 

“Not too long, Sir,” agrees the Sheriff.

 

Cecil once more exits Earl’s car. A helicopter whirs above them, disrupting the winking lights higher above it. The radio host’s hair blusters about his head and he lets the Sheriff guide him away from the car, though they stay in sight of its occupant.

 

“I’m sorry about speeding.”

 

“You’ve got stop sign immunity,” shrugs the man. “Welcome back, Mr. Palmer. We’ve all missed you. We’ve missed you both.”

 

“Earl is still over there.”

 

Through his baklava hood, the Sheriff may be frowning. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

 

Cecil rubs at his face. “You’ve got everyone here. Could...could we go and…?”

 

Already the man is shaking his head. “We have no power on their soil. Just as they have less on ours. You know this, unless you forgot in a re-education. Speaking of…”

 

Cecil follows his gaze to the car. Carlos is tapping a rhythm on the dash in front of him.

 

“He doesn’t remember who he is,” Cecil states.

 

“Outsider,” the Sheriff nods. “When StrexCorp owned our department, I got a glimpse of what they could do. Their re-education is effective.”

 

“So you can reverse it?” Cecil asks.

 

“Maybe,” he is told. “I’m pleased that our efforts are not as effective. There’s...something insidious about how they do it there. If we try are too gentle in undoing their efforts, it might not work at all. If we try too hard, we create a drone.”

 

Cecil rounds on the man. “I want my Carlos back!”

 

“Hey,” protests the clad figure. “I know, Cecil. I hear that. Carlos is our favourite scientist too. And we’ve never had a chance to re-educate him because _someone_ wouldn’t let us. City Council has no foundation with Carlos to start from and it’s going to take time.”

 

Cecil hugs himself. He feels frail and worn. Used. He feels used up. Useless. “What do we do?”

 

“The town wants to help. There are a few options. We can take him in by force, though if he suspects what we are planning, Carlos will fight us every step of the way and it could be damaging. Or we take things slow. Make it so he does not realize we’re fixing him.”

 

“Slow then,” Cecil swallows. “They gave him pills.”

 

“You better let him keep those,” the Sheriff muses. “Withdrawal will be harsh. Though the Faceless Old Woman or any of our operatives could slowly wean him away from them. If he notices that there are less than there should be, and he can’t find you at fault, it may trigger him to investigate and that’s...well…”

 

“That’s what Carlos would do,” Cecil breathes, starting to see the possibilities. He’s tempted to hug the Sheriff, though it’s probably illegal. He wrings his hands together instead. “Can I take him home?”

 

“We’ll install a few more hidden agents, but yes. We’ll keep you both under watch in case StrexCorp tries anything. Or if you need help, or we find an opportunity to invoke a re-education. And in regards to Earl, I’m very sorry, Mr. Palmer. Make an offering at the Spire. Try to be hopeful.”

 

Cecil nods reluctantly. “Was...was Earl okay, while we were gone?”

 

The Sheriff cocks his head. “He was driven. Went out into the desert for most of that time. Whatever happened out there, I think it allowed him to bring you two back. We didn’t expect much. I’m glad we were wrong.”

 

A gloved hand covers Cecil’s shoulder, redirecting him to the vehicle.

 

Cecil allows himself to be moved, aware that the love of his life is there. Carlos is a stranger.

 

He shuffles the keys to his dominant hand and the Sheriff stalls. “Oh, I almost forgot. The entire reason we all came out was by request of the mayor and City Council. They want you to be back on your show as soon as possible.”

 

Cecil pauses. He’s not sure if he can. He also knows he cannot refuse. Night Vale needs a Voice.

 

“Or perhaps I forgot to tell you entirely. I’ll remember in a day or two,” the Sheriff shrugs, slapping the top of the car. “Take care of yourself too.”

 

\--

 

With the dozens and dozens of unmarked black cars leaving the parking lot, Cecil considers asking his companion if he remembers this place. He considers asking Carlos to put a hand on his knee.

 

Carlos asks, “Were you really bad? They didn’t seem to punish you.”

 

He drags his gaze up to the once-scientist. He wonders what punishment should have entailed, in Carlos’ mind. “I got a warning,” he starts. “We have to stay at a house for a little while to show that we can be good.”

 

“I was good,” presses the other. “Do _I_ have to go too?”

 

Cecil nods. “Remember...remember Master saying we had to stay together?”

 

Carlos straightens as if burned. “No...I... _did_ he say that?”

 

“He did,” lies the radio host. “I’m surprised you didn’t listen.”

 

Carlos should not be so gullible. He should not be so easily manipulated. “Please don’t tell Master I wasn’t paying attention.”

 

“I won’t,” promises Cecil, starting the engine. “I hope you like the house.”

 

\--

 

The house that they share has an overgrown lawn which no longer sings in key. Half of the yard greets them in “Can’t Buy Me Love” which is a nice gesture, Cecil thinks. There are a lot of things that money shouldn’t buy. The other half of the yard is sleeping, which is starting to seem like a good idea.

 

Cecil has slept poorly nearly every night with Kevin. He expects to sleep poorly now that Earl is absent and Carlos is unwell. He can’t even welcome Carlos home without giving away his intentions of never letting the scientist leave this place.

 

Stepping inside, he tiredly asks, “If this place is familiar to you…”

 

Carlos presses at Cecil’s shoulder, peering in at the room. His expression is unreadable.

 

There is a sofa where they had watched movies together. There are shelves with each of their individual possessions cluttered about, fighting for territory. The kitchen is beyond that. The hallway is between, with stairs going up to their rooms. The stairs going down to their modified playroom and Carlos' lab are around the corner.

 

The broken furniture, shattered lamp and smashed-in television from StrexCorp's invasion has been rectified. Things look almost the same, perhaps with help from the Faceless Old Woman. On the coffee table is Earl’s Scout Manual. There is a neat stack of folded clothes. Cecil recognizes his shirts and pants, and a few lab coats. Earl had expected to get them both home. There is also a small heap of worn, soiled uniforms. Earl had had no time to wash his things before leaving.

 

“It’s pretty messy,” Carlos observes, face twisting. “If Master were to come…”

 

Cecil shakes his head, grabbing at his eyes as he storms in to protect the state of this place. “Master...is not coming here tonight.”

 

When he turns around, he finds Carlos biting his lip with trepidation.

 

Afraid that the other will settle into a default of blaming his behaviour for Kevin's absence, Cecil slumps his shoulders and adds, “Master is busy. That is why we had to go away.” The lies are writing themselves. They are also cutting Cecil deeply if he considers the twisted truth behind them. “We don’t want to interrupt him when he has...things to do.”

 

Carlos nods, and then shakes his head. Agreeing, then agreeing.

 

“It’s been a long day. We should sleep. We both need sleep. I need sleep,” mutters the host as he scoops up the Scout’s handbook. It is worn but well cared for. There are pages marked, no doubt for Cecil.

 

“Where is the bedroom?” inquires Carlos.

 

“Upstairs,” Cecil answers, strumming his fingers along the stacked pages.

 

“And are you sleeping in a cage?”

 

Cecil glances up at the inquiry. Carlos has the grace to look uneasy at asking, shrugging one shoulder to his ear as if loathe to remind Cecil of his status as the “bad pet.”

 

“There are no cages here,” Cecil dismisses. “We both get beds.”

 

“And I can have the light off?”

 

Cecil wonders if he should start making notes on everything Carlos says. He hopes there are unseen entities in the room capable of doing so. “Would you like the light off when you sleep?”

 

Carlos nods.

 

“Then you can have them off,” Cecil offers.

 

The giggle of relief is not something Carlos would do, but he expresses himself in such a way now. He turns to bound into the dark house and Cecil waits until he is out of sight before he crumples. The coffee table creaks at the new weight and the book in Cecil’s hand is pressed to his chest. He is home. He is miserable, but home.

 

A slap on the wall jerks his head up. Carlos has returned, leaning into the room as if a thought has literally dragged him back. “There’s cages downstairs.”

 

Cecil’s spine stiffens at the implication. The playroom is below them and the cage Carlos speaks of is one that Cecil himself had purchased. It had been a gift for Earl.

 

Earl is likely sleeping in a cage tonight.

 

Watching Cecil carefully, Carlos may be thinking that Cecil should do the same.

 

It is a miracle that he is able to keep his voice level as he states, “That room is off-limits. Do you remember that room, Carlos? Do you remember this house?”

 

The other man slides a hand idly down the corner of the wall. The shadows hide his features, but Cecil knows how to see through shadows. Something fights on Carlos’ face. “I...don’t want to think about it.”

 

Cecil wants Carlos to think about it. He gently says instead, “Go get ready for bed and you don’t have to think about anything.”

 

“‘Kay,” chirps the other, disappearing again.

 

Cecil restlessly waits, uncertain if he should chase after and curl into Carlos and pin him forever to the safety of the world they once inhabited. He also wants to shower until all of the water is gone from the town. Even that won’t be enough to clean the marks made by Cecil’s double, but the attempt might help. He could also climb into the car and drive through the house keeping Earl.

 

“Cecil,” states a voice from the ceiling. “It is...good to have you back.”

 

“Thank you,” Cecil murmurs. He does not look up. “I appreciate what you’ve done with the place.”

 

“Good,” croons the Faceless Old Woman. “You are surrounded. I don’t mean that in a bad way for once. Literally, there is no corner of your home that doesn’t have something that is full of teeth and blades and poison. I have left a carton of expired milk under the air conditioner unit where it gets hot. I will use it on any future interloper attempting to take you or Carlos away.”

 

“I’m...I’m not worried about that,” Cecil confesses.

 

“Oh, but you are. And I am too. Not Carlos, though.”

 

“Yes,” sighs the radio host. “About that: you can’t let him go if he tries to leave.”

 

“If he tries to leave at any time, I will drop that shelf of DVDs and trophies. It will notify the things in the corners and all will be well.”

 

Cecil glances at the shelf lining the large wall. He is tempted to move Carlos’ first trophy and Earl’s favourite things from it just in case. “Thank you. Is Khoshehk alright?”

 

“Your cat is with Janice until things settle. She may not give him back, though parting her and the cat may be a good life lesson. I should warn you, Carlos is taking a yellow pill right now. The Sheriff suggested I hide them slowly.”

 

“Can you?” prompts Cecil.

 

“Oh, very easily. He thinks he is hiding them from you in the linen closet.”

 

“Is it possible to get a sample to someone who can find out what they are?”

 

“I used to be a Chemist, Cecil,” the Faceless Old Woman flatly states.

 

Cecil glances upwards now. “Really?”

 

“No. But it was nice to lie to you again. I am in many homes, Cecil. I can find one of Carlos’ scientist team. They are not fans of StrexCorp. I am not a fan of them either. That man who took you can see my face, Cecil.”

 

“He’s...he is awful. I agree.”

 

“I will not go to his house,” the Faceless Old Woman dictates. “I know you will want to ask me to check up on Earl. But I will _not_ go.”

 

Cecil turns his eyes to his feet, deterred. “Then I apologize if I ask you multiple times regardless.”

 

“Nobody listens to me, but very well. I accept your apology. You should sleep.”

 

“I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

 

“Carlos is intimidated by the empty bed,” informs Cecil’s informer.

 

“Then I’ll go...lie with him.”

 

“It’s going to be okay, Cecil.”

 

The radio host nods, hardly believing it.

 

\--

 

Cecil forgoes a shower and pulls on the clean clothes left for him. He loves the scent of the fabric softener and clings to the extra bundles of laundry, burying his face in them. They come with Cecil up the stairs where he finds Carlos curled around the clothing gifted to him from Kevin.

 

“Will you change?” Cecil asks softly, holding up the clothing.

 

“I like what I’m wearing,” Carlos murmurs. “Will you play with me?”

 

Cecil hesitates, finally saying, “Not tonight.”

 

The answer seems to take Carlos a moment to process. He shifts on the bed, hugging himself. “I can be real good.”

 

“It’s not...no. Carlos. I know you can be good. You’re very talented. But I don’t want to.”

 

Carlos tilts his head, hair falling over a pout. “And what would Master think?”

 

The challenge is childish. It is almost desperate. Cecil tersely replies, “ _Master_ would want us to be well-rested for when the sun comes up.”

 

Carlos picks at the fuzz on the blanket he lies upon, before conceding. “Fine. Can we cuddle?”

 

“I think that’s a good idea,” Cecil praises, carefully crawling onto the sheets. He drapes his weight beside Carlos’, glad for the closeness. Wherever Earl is, he must be hoping that his boyfriends are together. Cecil can do that, at least.

 

He is glad he hasn’t asked for Carlos to be re-educated just yet. Cecil can fix this. Cecil can remind Carlos of who he should be.

 

“I don’t like the smell of your shirt,” Carlos whispers. He has pressed his face into Cecil’s chest but the radio host can feel him sniffling. Frowning. “Master likes when we sleep naked.”

 

Cecil has just regained his clothes and is not willing to part with them. “I’ll make you a deal,” he tiredly offers. “I’ll sleep naked with you every night forever, if you get rid of what you’re wearing.”

 

“Give up these clothes forever?”

 

“That’s only fair.”

 

Carlos shifts to allow his fingers to clutch at his lip. He gnaws as he considers the bargain. “We can...both keep our clothes.”

 

Cecil closes his eyes, aware that he’s won as much as he’s lost. But in the morning, he can wash Kevin’s “gifts” until they smell like Earl. He can justify it with any number of observations of cleanliness being important to a professional image. He can play the game as good as Kevin can.

 

He drifts to sleep trying to feel bolstered.

 

\--

 

Cecil isn’t sure if he has an emergency broadcast dream. He thinks an officer of the police wakes him briefly to congratulate him on navigating conversations with Carlos. Then he jolts awake when something heavy holds him down and he knows Kevin is just about to strike him.

 

In actuality, the bindings are just Carlos, who has started to cling in his sleep.

 

“You should talk to him,” whispers a voice from under the bed. It speaks up when Cecil calms his heart and reminds himself that Kevin is nowhere near them. “When he’s sleeping, you should speak about the things he needs to remember.”

 

Cecil is not sure which officer is under the bed, but it is not the same one from the dream/not-dream.

 

Cecil is exhausted, but a good idea is a good idea. He leans over the dark face of a snoring man and starts to whisper about a friendly desert community and its most singular, favoured scientist. He is careful not to wake the other with his volume. He is deliberate in pouring his passion into the stories he weaves. His sonorous tone comes natural, as if Cecil had never lost time as Night Vale’s Voice. He has no idea how much Carlos hears, but it is cathartic to run on and on about Cecil’s home. He had almost forgotten that home, himself.

 

It is Carlos’ home too.

 

When the room lightens with dawn, Cecil finds himself stopping abruptly, surprised at the time. He peers about, confused with the hour. Carlos stretches, grunting. He snuffles against Cecil’s arm, which tingles from blood loss.

 

“Good morning,” Cecil greets, watchful of any indication of old Carlos. Of real Carlos.

 

“Mmmm,” hums the other. “It _is_ a good morning! Do you think we will see Master today?”

 

Cecil cannot smile as Carlos smiles. He looks away and wearily says, “I don’t know what to think, Carlos.”

  
“Stay optimistic,” Cecil is unhelpfully, helpfully told.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning passes in a blur. Cecil drags out the coffee to grind and finds the dragon blood in the fridge separating. He knows where the creamer has been hidden but will not go find it. He’s never enjoyed his coffee black but he suffers through a cup as he makes the day’s agenda.

Groceries. Laundry. Save Carlos. Get Earl back. Destroy Kevin. A five item to-do list cannot be that impossible to achieve in a day.

The groceries solve themselves when there is a knock at the door. Carlos nearly topples Cecil over, causing the host to slosh hot liquid onto his shirt. Carlos turns, not acknowledging the hazard, bouncing on his bare toes. “Is it Master?”

Cecil does not reply, carefully setting down the mug as he pries his damp shirt from his chest. It sticks, the sensation of a potential scalding competing with sensitivity to air. He’s felt this way before and checks the door’s peephole just in case it _is_ Kevin. Carlos vibrates behind him.

There is an Erika slipping down the sidewalk, steadily creeping away with grandeur. Cecil remembers that he should be denying that he’s seen it, but he is so glad it is not his double that he smiles at what he knows he should not know. Angels are real and watching out for him.

“It’s not Master,” he murmurs when Carlos starts to clutch at the back of his soiled shirt. He opens the door to prove it and there, on the steps, is a large carepackage. “It was Josie.”

Carlos deflates, pouting.

Cecil steps outside to pull the giant basket in. He sees a casserole and a generous pile of biscuits. There is even a bottle of fresh lizard’s blood and Cecil sings silent praises as he hugs the offering. He can skip the groceries in his plans and move onto more important things. He’ll start with laundry.

His boyfriend sits on the sofa, moodily hugging his knees to his chest. It does not look like he will be willing to shed Kevin’s clothes, so Cecil doesn’t try to Gain them. He strips his own shirt off, tossing it onto the pile of Earl’s ruined garments.

A feather touch surprises Cecil. He glances up to find Carlos close, watching him. For once, the hungry leer from the other man is off-putting. He shifts away and Carlos follows, tracing fingers along Cecil’s ribs. They trail to where his hip juts out against the line of his pants and Cecil’s skin puckers. He steps fully away. “No, Carlos. Not right now.”

Carlos whines. It is a pathetic and sad sound. Cecil sets his jaw and clutches the clothes. If he asked Carlos to strip, he may win himself Kevin’s clothes to wash, or destroy. Bleach. He will bleach everything.

He dismisses the idea. It would be manipulative and unfair. It would be confusing for Carlos. Sex for favours is not an acceptable therapy. Cecil leaves the room, suggesting that if Carlos is hungry, there are several things in the basket that are ready to eat.

\--

As the washing machine hums, Cecil ponders how to pull his boyfriend back into himself. Since moving in together, they each have created their own space. The playroom and Earl’s garage. There is also a laboratory set up in the basement for Carlos. It is impossible to get to it, though, without seeing parts of the playroom. Several of the fixtures in their playroom are too heavy to move, or have been installed into the building itself. It will be difficult getting Carlos to his familiar lair without giving up the fact that the bondage equipment exists. Cecil isn’t ready to explain that.

He rubs at his face and considers moving the lab.

When he returns to the front room, Carlos is curled on the sofa, dozing. He looks perfect and Cecil stands for a long time pretending that nothing bad had ever happened to them. He is just home from work early and Carlos, his Carlos, is sleeping. And Earl is only on a trip to Hidden Gorge with his boys.

Cecil should join Carlos and catch up on rest too. He should sit and whisper truths and secrets about their lives so Carlos dreams about them and wakes up normal. He should also move the lab.

He does that, carrying beakers and solutions and notepads full of numbers. He sets them up on the table. He finds Carlos’ danger meter and plugs it in, though it beeps in a tone Cecil’s never heard it make before. He spends an hour trying to arrange everything to a semblance of how he thinks Carlos would arrange it. If something is out of place, perhaps the other will notice, remember, and correct it.

A shuffle of feet on the floor alerts Cecil that he is no longer alone. Well, visibly alone. Carlos rubs at his eye and peers at the chaos that the kitchen has become.

Cecil waits for a revelation. For even a scolding for moving so many important experiments. Carlos frowns, motioning at the glass garden. “I don’t know where you got all of this, but it’s cluttering everywhere.”

Forcing himself to be persistent, Cecil admits, “I don’t know what half of these are. Do you?”

Carlos snorts. “A waste of time? If Master’s being productive, we should be productive too.”

Cecil looks away, glancing at the beakers and their shining lips. Their reflective and corroded shells. Maybe he could break them all. “And what would be a productive use of your time?” he asks, proud of how he keeps the shards from his voice.

“We could play with each other. Stay in shape for when…”

A loud ding from the danger meter interrupts Carlos’ suggestion. It pierces through the room, as satisfying as any crack of glass would be. Cecil clings to the sound, and Carlos flinches. Cecil hopes it chimes once more.

“Turn that off,” Carlos scowls. “It’s...it’s unpleasant.”

“It was yours, once.”

The once-scientist shakes his head. “Then get rid of it. I don’t want it anymore. Get rid of everything.”

Cecil watches Carlos turn. He predicts that the other is going to self-medicate. He peers at the menagerie of flasks and chemicals. Cecil starts to carefully put them back into a box.

\--

Cecil lies awake until he knows Carlos is snoring. He has somehow hit a second wind and finds it easy to think of things to hum into an ear. Cecil talks about Science and all the things a scientist most definitely is. He describes time and how it apparently should work. He loses track of the commodity again, waking up to sunlight and having no recollection of having fallen asleep.

The bed beside him is empty.

Cecil jerks upright, blearily tearing his sheets away. Oh Spire, if Carlos has left Night Vale…

Cecil takes the steps two at a time to the lower level. He is on the verge of calling out to any of those sharing his home for information when he hears the television. Carlos is on the sofa, cross-legged and still in Kevin’s clothes. He is eating from a box of cereal, pulling bits out to munch on. The television flashes infomercials and its singular viewer appears entranced.

After watching for a moment, Cecil scoops up the remote and flicks it to a documentary channel. He knows Carlos and Earl both enjoyed the programmes on this show. A man in a lab coat is explaining how viruses work. It is a rerun, Cecil identifies. A military man will be on soon to explain how viruses are a hoax invented by the Lizard Rulers of America to further some nefarious process. It had been one of Earl and Carlos’ favourites to debate.

“I was watching that,” Carlos protests. “I want to see what they were going to throw in at no extra cost.”

“Well,” Cecil considers, taking a spot on the neighboring cushion. “We can watch this now. Maybe it’s just as interesting.”

“I don’t want to,” Carlos huffs. “StrexCorp doesn’t sponsor anything on this.”

“How long were you watching informercials?” Cecil asks.

Shrugging, the other says, “I don’t know. Before the sun came up?”

“So you got to watch what you wanted for a few hours. _I_ want to watch this.”

“Maybe,” starts Carlos, fidgeting with the box in his hands. “Maybe we could tell stories instead?”

Cecil straightens. He’s been telling Carlos stories for most of the night. “Yeah, that...yes! What do you want to hear?”

“A story about the half-elf and the spoiled prince. And what happened to them when they were stupid enough to escape the Smiling --”

The remote clatters against the far wall as Cecil throws it. Batteries and gears scatter across the floor and the television, insulted, shuts off.

“I’m not telling that story!” Cecil growls.

“But it’s my favourite,” Carlos sulks. “Then maybe you and I could re-enact one of Master’s other stories?

Cecil shakes his head to keep the rest of him from shaking. “No, I think not.”

“You can’t always say ‘no,’” argues Carlos.

Cecil drapes an arm protectively across his torso. “Actually, yes I can, Carlos. I can say ‘no’ as much as I want.”

The concept seems to settle in the other’s head. He considers it unhappily, concluding, “This is why Master always ties you up. Because you always say ‘no.’”

Fending off a shiver, Cecil challenges, “Tying me up was _wrong_ of him.”

“No,” snaps Carlos. “Saying bad things about Master is _wrong_. Master is --”

“--a bad man,” interrupts Cecil. “He’s changed you, Carlos. And he hurt me for no reason. He punished me for no reason. And he has Earl. And he’s going to hurt Earl just as he hurt me.”

Carlos drags his hands to his ears, jerking his head side to side. They’ve done this before in Desert Bluffs. “I’m not listening!” he shouts over Cecil’s accusations.

“No, you are listening,” Cecil announces, reaching over to grab at Carlos’ wrists. “You are _going_ to listen!”

He gets a heel of a palm across his face as Carlos pulls away. “You don’t talk about Master that way. You’re _bad_ , Cecil.”

The radio host’s cheek tingles and he clings to Carlos, pulling and demanding the other to see reason. “Kevin _never_ loved you and…”

A foot connects against Cecil’s side and he feels something twinge in his back. Carlos’ hands are stronger when he pulls them into his personal space, covering his ears as he screams slogans. Cecil wants to scream back, louder and angrier than any representative of StrexCorp ever could. His heart hammers in his head, and suddenly, there are another pair of hands helping him.

A Secret Police officer in a black ballgown has come up from behind the sofa and she prys at Carlos’ fingers.

“Carlos, listen to me…” Cecil pleads.

“No!” screams the other man, writhing to disentangle himself from two fronts. Carlos’ face is flush and he can no longer kick with Cecil trapping his legs.

“We’re doing this for you,” the officer bellows, her gown susurrating and sparkles raining about.

“No, no, no!” Carlos shrilly repeats.

“Master _isn’t_ good,” Cecil tries.

A head twists frantically. Carlos mewls and importunes to be released. Cecil almost misses the word as he scrambles to find some other thing to shout that will get through. He almost misses the word as he grasps for some other revelation that will break the wall down that StrexCorp had created.

But Cecil doesn’t miss it -- the meek, broken, “Crimson.”

Cecil freezes. The officer shifts to better her hold and the radio host bats those hands away, too.

Carlos repeats himself. “Crimson. Crimson. Crimson. Crimson.”

“That’s his safeword,” Cecil hurriedly explains. “Don’t touch him. Don’t…”

The officer lets go, her black formal gloves held up as she backs away. Cecil, also makes space. He watches Carlos curl into himself, crying. It takes a moment for Cecil to realize that his own eyes are streaming too.

“Carlos?” he asks, tentative. He refrains from reaching out, wanting nothing more than to touch and consol. Carlos covers his ears again, chest heaving.

“What do we do?” mouths the officer.

Cecil jerks his thumb towards the kitchen and slowly, carefully, they abandon the room.

“That was his safeword,” Cecil whispers. “He remembered his safeword.”

The woman picks at a stray thread in her dress. “A lot of good that timing was, though.”

“I don’t know what we would have gained. I’m so...I don’t know,” Cecil sighs, working to contain his emotions. “We...I’ll make him hot chocolate. We always had…”

The officer turns to take over the kettle. “I shouldn’t have gotten involved,” she states. “I thought he might overpower you and…”

“It’s fine,” dismisses Cecil, feeling anything but fine.

“There’s re-education.”

Cecil jerks his head. “It’s too early. I don’t think he’s ready and we _are_ getting through to him.”

“Maybe you should reassess. Are you _really_ getting through to Carlos? Are you capable of accomplishing it by yourself? You haven’t even showered in the last few days. It shows, Mr. Palmer. Or maybe you’re scared of the risks? It’s understandable. Losing both of your boyfriends is…”

Cecil stiffens and she stops.

“...sorry.”

When he glances up, he finds her gone.

He swallows back an ache in his throat as he recalls how to make the sweet beverage Carlos once prefered. The silence of the house is unnerving. Carlos is in the other room and while Cecil had always felt shame at failing to notice a problem before safewords are required, he feels it especially now.  

They had been physically fighting. He had lost his composure and failed to identify Carlos’ needs. He is supposed to be the responsible one.

The mug steams as Cecil carries it into the next room. He finds Carlos sitting up, silently hugging a cushion. He eyes his companion suspiciously so Cecil approaches slowly, getting near enough to gently deposit the drink within Carlos’ reach before backing away.

“Um...I’m going to have a shower.”

Carlos says nothing, so Cecil lingers a moment with his eyes cast low before retreating.

\--

Cecil stands in the tub, letting the steam and pouring hot water serve as an excuse for the burning in his eyes. He doesn’t remember locking the door, but it must be sealed, as the handle jiggles for a moment, indicating someone hoping to enter.

Cecil doubts the culprit is any of the police.

Perhaps Carlos is himself again, wanting to show Cecil he is himself again. More likely, he is looking to make amends with the only one capable of returning him to Kevin. Maybe Carlos just needs a long, unending hug.

Cecil should open the door.

He doesn’t.

Cecil doesn’t want to be held while he is naked. He doesn’t want to be touched. He knows Carlos is not Kevin, but right now Cecil needs to dictate the terms of any intimacy. He thinks that’s fair, especially with Carlos’ concepts of consent being so skewed.

“And whose fault is that?” Cecil grunts into the hollow chamber of his shower.

Cecil is to blame. He had been the one to introduce the kinkier side of intercourse with his boyfriends. It had been _his_ fetishes that had started their games. He encouraged both Earl and Carlos to explore their fringe desires, and while Earl had always been game for them, Cecil remembers Carlos being hesitant. Careful. Reluctant.

Did they go too far? Did that allow for Kevin to take advantage? How is that subverting Carlos’ treatment? If Carlos wants sex, what is the point of Cecil withholding it if he uncomfortable and…

The house vibrates in time with a mighty crash. Cecil braces against the wall, pulled from his musing. It is not an earthquake. Something in the main room has collapsed and…

“The shelf!”

Cecil throws back the shower curtain, grabbing a towel to fling around his form. He rips the door wide and speeds down the stairs. He finds the room a mess -- a pile of books and DVDs splayed across the floor and counter. Carlos is standing wide-eyed at the scene. The front door is open a crack.

Clinging to his towel and dripping, Cecil stares at the other.

“I didn’t do it,” peeps Carlos. “I was nowhere near the shelves when they fell. Please don’t tell on me.”

Cecil exhales, unaware that he had been involuntarily not breathing. “It’s okay, Carlos. It is. Will you help me pick everything up? We can make it so none of this looks like it happened.”

Carlos nods, hopeful. He seems to have forgotten about his attempt at the door.

“You start gathering everything, and I’ll get dressed and join you.”

The other nods again, drifting to the closest of the plastic movie boxes.

After shutting off the water in the shower and throwing on fresh clothes, Cecil murmurs his thanks to the Faceless Old Woman before joining the clean-up. He finds Carlos stacking the DVDs into piles.

It is hard to tell if Carlos is dividing them by any method. At first glance, Cecil suspects that Carlos separates the piles into who owns what. The first stack is entirely Earl’s things. Then the radio hosts notices a few mistakes and starts to doubt that theory. He picks up _A Knights Tale_ and adds it to a stack.

Cheesy and heroic, it is one of Earl’s favourite films. Carlos had found it for Earl’s birthday.

“You look sad.”

Cecil glances up. Carlos holds a stack of reference books with a single trophy dangling from a finger. They are just objects to the other. Carlos watches Cecil cradle the DVD. “You were sad when you were looking at that coffee table book, too.”

“Yeah,” Cecil nods. “I was.”

“You’re sad a lot.”

Cecil hums affirmatively. He wonders where Carlos is going with the observation. He is hopeful and scared.

“It’s not very productive to be sad,” states the dark-haired man. He drops his pile carelessly on the sofa.

Cecil shrugs, sick of productivity. “I’m sad because I know things that are sad. Things happening far away, and things happening in our heads.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Carlos replies.

“If things don’t make sense, you ask questions,” presses Cecil.

Carlos brushes the suggestion aside. “Then you know things, and they make you sad.”

“Ignorance is bliss,” Cecil mutters, picking up a piece of fallen shelf. The plank has a crack but may be salvageable. There are many things that Cecil hopes are salvageable.

“Exactly!” chirps Carlos. He recites, “Don’t think or ask questions. Just listen and obey! Believe in a Smiling --”

“Void,” Cecil abruptly states.

Carlos snorts. “That’s not how it goes.”

“Void,” Cecil repeats. His voice is steady but his insides are not. He wonders if Carlos will remember Cecil’s safeword.

Across the room, Carlos carefully regards him. “Why are you saying that?”

“It means I can’t take anymore,” Cecil swallows. “I’m at my limit.”

“If you worked harder, maybe your limit would be --”

“Void.”

Carlos trails off, glancing at his feet.

Cecil sets the wood plank against the closet and quietly shuts the front door, locking it. Then he goes to the kitchen. The boxes of lab equipment are under the table. He sits where they had previously been set up. It is dark in the room and he no longer cares if the house is becoming a disaster. The void he references is a thing he holds onto. It could swallow up everything, including the tangle of frayed feelings Cecil wallows in.

A void could end them all and it would not be Cecil’s fault.

A half hour later, Cecil realizes that Carlos is hovering at the entrance to the room. The radio host stares up wordlessly as the other steps in, holding a mug. He sets it down on the table. Then pushes it towards Cecil before retracing his steps. Before retreating.

Cecil considers the cup. It is the same one he had given Carlos earlier, generically white. He pulls it over slowly and finds it half empty. Cold. A skin floats on the surface of the drink.

It could either be an insult, or an offering. He wants to believe it is an offering. He draws it in closer, hugging the cool porcelain to his chest.

Safewords. Cecil remembers teaching them to Carlos. He remembers trying to use his own during his painful re-educations, then having to relearn to use them with his boyfriends. He knows he doesn’t want to subject Carlos to the same treatments. He wants to trust in safewords.

  
He wishes life had a safeword. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting a ton of support lately for my writing. Your kind words and earnest enthusiasms are cherished. Thank you.
> 
> And constructive criticism is also welcomed. I'm trying to be the best I can be, and there is heavy subject matter here. I respect that, and you, and any observations you may be compelled to make about inaccuracies, et al.


	4. Chapter 4

The Faceless Old Woman informs Cecil that Carlos is using Earl’s smartphone to try calling Kevin. But it is impossible for the process of dialing to work for she is invisibly touching the screen.

 

“Thank you,” Cecil murmurs, dull and weary. He knows he’s slept, but he can’t process for how many hours. Time is fluid, slipping away from Cecil.

 

“You should keep telling him things at night,” the Faceless Old Woman says as she lines up crackers in a row across the table. “He’s upstairs on the phone right now, but he’s given up on reaching... _that man_. He is watching infomercials and cat videos on Youtube.”

 

“I don’t feel like cat videos,” Cecil murmurs, picking salt off of one of the crackers. “Do you really think talking to him while he sleeps is helping?”

 

“I don’t know,” he is told. “But all of us sharing this house enjoy it.”

 

Yawning, Cecil scratches at his scalp. “Well, it doesn’t hurt anyone…”

 

\--

 

He tries to find a compromise between getting his rest and talking to a peaceful Carlos. Cecil sets the phone to wake him after four hours, and successfully rouses at the alarm to spend the rest of the night describing the strange things that want for explaining.

 

Sacrificing the extra time to sleep turns out to be easy as his dreams are increasingly suffocating and cruel. There is something about mirrors and costumes from some fantasy. And eyeless Kevin, reaching across those reflective windows. If Cecil dares to move away, Kevin takes others instead. He never sees Earl’s face in the dream. If he sees Carlos, the man is always smiling.

 

The radio host is considering other options for forgetting the disjointed dreams when he stumbles down the stairs, catching himself after his ankle rolls. He grimaces at his clumsiness, forced to limp in order to check their mail. He expects the Sheriff will be asking him to take up his old duties soon, though he feels like he had never stopped, what with the all-night reporting.

 

There is only a book in their mailbox. Why Burning Down Stockholm Will Not Help: Steps to Escape After Escaping by Jay Athis. A single blood spattered bookmark identifies the sender.

 

Carlos does not notice Cecil as he hobbles over. The scientist sits watching the television flicker. Cecil settles down on a chair beside the sofa and lets the infomercials continue, becoming background noise. Maybe Tamika’s offering will shed insight. He asks his mind to help him focus, not bothering to see if the book is Council approved.

 

The introduction is promising. He finishes the first chapter before realizing that he did not retain any of the meaning. He flips back to the beginning, unsure if he is just too tired to focus, or if the book is broken.

 

He skips two paragraphs, still no closer to affirming either theory, when palms circle his knees.

 

Cecil shifts the book aside to find the Carlos peering up at him with dark eyes. The other has vacated the sofa, crawling across the carpet to kneel before the seat. With an innocuous smirk, the man pushes Cecil’s knees gently apart while stroking the fabric stretching over the knees.

 

In response, Cecil plants his heels and says, “No.”

 

Carlos furrows his brows. “You’re sad.”

 

“I’m sad and tired, and still saying ‘no,’” Cecil answers.

 

Carlos considers, before leaning in to press his chest into the cushion and his face into Cecil’s lap.

 

“Void!” snaps the radio host, and he feels Carlos go rigid. Then, Carlos thankfully draws back to his original perch before his companion.

 

“I want to help make you not sad.”

 

“I understand, Carlos. But…”

 

“Tell me what you want?” Carlos pleads. “I want to be useful. I want to be good.”

 

Cecil quietly asks,  “You want to be used?”

 

The pupils bloom in Carlos’ eyes. He nods, eagerly.

 

Cecil bitterly bites back a sigh. He wants to press his hands into his eyes and curl in on himself. “Could you...could you make us something to eat? That would be...that would make me happy.”

 

“Okay,” breathes the other man. He hops to his feet and skips away.

 

Cecil attempts to pick up where he had left off but ultimately ends up mentally apologizing to Tamika for his inability to focus. He knows she would not give him a book that is faulty. He is about to shut it when a page rips. It should not have, as he is in no way handling the book in a way that will harm it.

 

Flipping it open to the offending page, he finds red ink bleeding into the margins. ‘ _Carlos is spiking your lunch. -FOW_ ’

 

It is this moment when the man in question returns, holding a plate with a sandwich. “I hope this helps,” he gushes. “You’ll be happy in no time.”

 

“Right,” Cecil agrees, taking the offering and watching Carlos plant himself at Cecil’s feet. “You can sit on the sofa.”

 

“I want to be near you,” Carlos pouts, petting at Cecil’s legs.

 

“And I appreciate that. Um...did you hear? Master is supposed to be voicing a commercial on channel six.”

 

The speed at which Carlos scrambles to manually change the channels is disheartening. Cecil holds his plate aside and feels the food on it become plucked free by unseen hands. The ruse is unnecessary. Carlos sits nose to screen, distracted, for hours.

 

\--

 

It is later in the afternoon when, adamant that the television continue to play channel six, that Carlos dozes as he curls into the carpet. Cecil is stuck to his chair, not sure if he should try to talk over the show, or fall asleep too. He knows his subconscious will find traces of Kevin’s voice to replay for him. The chair will become a prison and Carlos will fuck Cecil for their Master’s amusement and…

 

A knock startles Cecil from the thought and he shakes himself from its lingering effects to stare at the door.

 

It could be Kevin.

 

“It will _not_ be,” hisses the radio host who scowls at himself. He used to be terrified of real things. He misses that.

 

Carlos continues to breathe deeply from the floor and Cecil steps over a few loose DVD boxes before he opens the door. He is expecting the Sheriff or Josie or -- _please Spire please_ \-- Earl.

 

He finds Steve Carlsberg. “Hey Cecil, I’m supposed to tell you that you’ve missed out on your mandatory Big Rico’s.”

 

“Fuck off, Steve,” Cecil snaps.

 

Dropping his large hands to his hips, the man Cecil loathes sighs. “Cecil, come on. Carlos is asleep and this is your chance to leave the house without having to explain to him why you’re breaking your fake house arrest.”

 

Cecil glances at the floor behind him where he can see part of his boyfriend dozing. Steve has no ability to see inside with the radio host barricading the door. “Did your magic sky-lines tell you that?”

 

Steve shrugs. “Yes. And they tell me other things, too. Come on. Let’s get some food.”

 

“You’re the last person I would leave with!”

 

Steve frowns. “Actually, I’m the second-last person. Kevin is the last guy you want to see, so that makes me second.”

 

“ _You_ ,” hisses Cecil, thrusting a finger into his brother-in-law’s chest. “You aren’t supposed to know about that. It’s extremely private and personal and how dare you bring that up?”

 

Steve takes the jabs, shaking his head. “Please, Cecil. I can’t bring Janice into this. She’s too young to understand why her uncle is so upset. But we’re worried and you can’t stay shut in. It’s killing you. We’ll get some pizza sauce. Or hummus. Whatever you want. I’ll have you back before Carlos wakes up. You don’t even have to talk to me, or you can howl at me the whole time.”

 

Cecil considers slamming the door in Steve’s face, though he is hungry and he’s certain today’s hidden officer will remind him that he _has_ missed out on Big Rico’s for far too long.

 

“Fine, but we’re taking Earl’s car. Not your ridiculous Corolla.”

 

\--

 

Cecil ignores the stares from various townsfolk. He ignores meeting Steve’s eyes from across the booth. There is a thin layer of cloud stretching across the sky, high up where it fails to hide the sun or the stop the heat. It simply swallows the blue into a pale, colourless equivalent.

 

Hungrier than he had thought, Cecil polishes off the sauce and orders a second. He dares Steve to comment on it, but the other man is frustratingly patient.

 

Finally, the radio host mutters, “So let’s get this over with. What do your stupid sky-circles tell you?”

 

Steve rolls his Coke between his hands as he meaningfully states, “They say it’s not your fault, Cecil.”

 

Cecil rolls his eyes back. “Of all the --”

 

“ _Everything_ ,” insists Steve. “None of it is your fault. The kidnapping? Not your fault. You went along and didn’t force them to hurt you or Carlos. Whenever you co-operated, it was not your fault. What Carlos is like now, also not _your_ fault. Whatever sexual practices you guys did beforehand is not your fault. You were all consenting adults and Kevin twisted that. Not you. And Earl being where he is...not your fault, Cecil.”

 

“I know it’s not my fault,” Cecil snaps.

 

“No, you don’t. You’re lying to yourself. I don’t know much about much, but I do know you, Cecil.” Steve leans across the table, adamant. “You put everyone else first. You try to protect this town. When you used to do the show, you tried to guide everybody through the rough stuff, whether it was Street Cleaners or lonely nights. You try to protect Janice from knowing the wrong things, which...well, that’s how I know it. I try to understand your point of view. The world is a scary place and you do what you can for those stuck in it. You spent that whole ordeal in Desert Bluffs trying to protect Carlos. You were the bad one so he could be safer. You are spending so much of your energy now on saving him that you are not looking after yourself. You’re trying to think of Earl. You’re worried about how you still should give back to Night Vale by retaking your place on your show. But think about _you_ , for once. If you can’t handle your own well-being, you can’t handle anyone else’s.”

 

Cecil slaps the tabletop, making his bowl jump. “Earl! Steve, what do your shapes tell you about Earl?”

 

Steve drops back into his chair. “You weren’t even listening to me, were you?”

 

“Shut up,” insists the radio host. “Do your sky-notes tell you about Earl Harlan?”

 

Steve sadly considers his reluctant companion. “Yes,” he finally admits.

 

“And is it bad?” presses Cecil. “Would you tell me? Even better, assuming I accept the sky-note-whatever-they-are, could they direct you on a way to get Earl home?”

 

“Sorry, Cecil. I _am_ sorry. That’s not how this works.”

 

Cecil hits the table again. “ _Make_ them work!”

 

Steve sits tight-lipped. Ungiving.

 

“Then how can you not?” Cecil asks.

 

“Because I use them to look after --”

 

“--yourself?” cries Cecil.

 

Steve keeps his mouth impressively tight. “Yes. Myself. Because I am raising Janice. And I have my wife. And I love them. So that is what I protect.”

 

Cecil realizes that he would greatly appreciate if Steve had shouted that. Or grabbed at him. The other man is settled a safe distance away, impassive. Unhappy. The radio host should apologize. He asks instead, “Can you tell me what’s happening, or going to happen to Earl?”

 

Steve fiddles with his straw. “I don’t want to tell you. How...how about this. You get eight hours of sleep. _Uninterrupted_ sleep. And when that happens, I’ll answer your question. And don’t lie. I’ll know because the lights and arrows in the sky will know. And it only hurts yourself.”

 

Cecil holds back a protest. He tries, “I can’t leave Carlos unattended for so long.”

 

Steve cocks his head, sympathetic. “I can tell you this. He should get re-educated soon. He is wising up, but not in a good way. If he gets too smart…”

 

Cecil motions for Steve to continue.

 

The other man shrugs. “You’ll lose more than sleep. You’ll lose everything.”

 

\--

 

When Cecil returns he is told that Carlos is in the bedroom. The Faceless Old Woman warns that the scientist also knows his pills should be more numerous.

 

Cecil nods, pulling off his shirt to collapse onto the sofa. If he goes upstairs, he suspects that he will end up talking. Maybe talking fixes nothing.

 

Maybe Steve is right. Maybe Kevin is a more perfect copy of Cecil, accomplishing things that cannot be so readily undone. Maybe Cecil deserves nothing and that is why he is losing his grip on the important things.

 

Maybe he _is_ bad.

 

He shuts his eyes and thinks about how he really is a spoiled princeling -- stripped of everything.

 

_“I always liked the stories best when there is a potential for rescue.”_

_That had been Carlos. They had been curled onto this very couch, a laptop heating Cecil’s lap in view of all three of them._

_“Last minute redemption,” agrees Earl. “A happy ending is like an orgasm.”_

_“Oh, aren’t you the literary critic,” Cecil drawls, teasingly. “I’m going to write you both a story so full of peril that you won’t know how the fuck toys get out of it to find a happy ending.”_

_“But there will be a happy ending?” Carlos asks._

_“That depends,” hums the author, pulling his purple computer away from his groin. “Do you two deserve one?”_

  
Cecil falls asleep with the reverie, chasing down possibilities for how it might end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of posting this, it is the final day of NaNoWriMo 2014. I've got about 8000 words to go before I can finish. 
> 
> As M_Moonshade stated, NaNoWriMo is more like writing a zero draft. That...well, is true. So I expect re-working my project will take up a lot of December and forever. I'm really, really bad at this. Let's just say it out loud. 
> 
> I will keep updating _Bringing Him Back_ weekly and **if** I can get ahead of myself, there will be random chapters. Ergo: Sunday chapters for certainly...Maybe chapters whenever, maybe!
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

Cecil wakes with a stiff neck. The room is dark. He recalls no nightmares or dreams. He can hear water boiling.

He lifts himself gingerly, feeling his ankle protest as he tests his weight upon it. It is nice to have only the stairs try to harm him.

That...that is an odd thought, Cecil thinks.

In the kitchen, Carlos is illuminated by the pale light over the stove. He is watching a pot of water simmer.

“What are you doing?”

The other man shrugs.

“How long was I asleep?” asks Cecil.

“A long time.”

“Half a day: long time? Eight hours?"

Carlos sighs, irritated. “No. Longer. You weren’t productive at all.”

“I think sleeping can be productive,” Cecil comments meekly. “What do you want us to accomplish instead?”

Carlos shifts. It is now that Cecil realizes that the other is wearing new clothes. “I want to see what’s in the basement. I think I already know and I don’t know why you’re keeping it from me. I want to play around, but you never let me. I want you to find out why the laundry machine is eating the things I was given. And I want to know when this stupid trip is over so I can see Master again.”

Nodding slowly, Cecil considers the answers he can give Carlos. It bothers him to note the agitation in the other’s tone. He is aware that the pot holds water that is scalding.

“Can I go and find out?” he lies. “I’ll make a phone call and get you a definite date for when we can return to Master? I didn’t want to bother him sooner. He’s busy and I’m trying my best to be...a good pet.”

Carlos melts, his posture slackening at the promise. “Thank you, Cecil. I really don’t want anything unfortunate to happen.”

Pausing as he reaches for the phone on the table, Cecil peers up. “Unfortunate how?”

Carlos shrugs dismissively. “You were going to make a phone call?”

Cecil nods, pocketing the device. He steps away casually, fetching his shoes. He is glad his shirt masks the raised hair on his arms. He feels his ankle stretching, testing weakness against the chance of running. Carlos is humming, brightly and hardly sinister.

The tune is, ‘You are my Sunshine.’

Outside of the house, a tan Corolla waits. Cecil hardly notices the hubcaps as he climbs in.

It feels like a refuge.

\--

He asks to go to the Spire. Steve nods, pulling his car into traffic.

“I need an offering. I should have grabbed something on the way out,” the radio host murmurs.

Steve chucks a thumb over his shoulder. “Carlos threw a few things out while you were sleeping. Simone and I picked up what we thought was relevant.”

Cecil cranes around in his seat, finding bags in the back holding books and clothes and DVDs. Sticking out of one such bag is Earl’s Scout handbook. Cecil pulls it free.

“Are you going to offer that?” Steve asks. He sounds hesitatingly curious.

“If it works, I’ll offer anything,” Cecil sighs. “Earl can get mad if he comes back. _When_. When he comes back...”

Steve nods. “You slept for eighteen hours. How do you feel?”

“My head hurts. I also think Carlos is going to do something to harm me.” When he says it, the words sound ridiculous. They leave his mouth with a bitterness that only comes from uttering some kind of truth.

“Nobody will let that happen,” Steve consols. “He is spacing his pills out but he’s used to taking them more frequently. He also spent most of that time you were unconscious trying to observe them in their hiding place in case he could stop them from disappearing. It’s almost like science, right?”

Cecil considers the potential. He’s tired of holding out hope for false signals. “I don’t think I can get through to him.”

“Not your fault,” Steve reminds Cecil. It is important he does so. “You can ask for help. Everybody in Night Vale wants things to work out. StrexCorp attempts to change us, and that’s not right. It wasn’t right for Janice. It isn’t right for Carlos. I’ve been through some rough re-educations myself, but City Council never tries to change who you are. Just what you say. Or what you remember.”

The Spire comes into view a lot sooner than Cecil anticipates. “This is not the usual road.”

Steve grins, fondly tapping his steering wheel. “The arrows in the sky give me alternative routes. I save a lot in milage and nobody but me and some World Government agents know these ways.”

“Speaking of your sky-things…”

Steve pulls up a respectable distance from the Spire. “Go do your thing here. Then we’ll talk.”

Clutching Earl’s handbook, Cecil does.

\--

The Spire does not destroy Cecil. He didn’t think it would, but the possibility had been there. It always is there. The Spire does not speak or grant visions to Cecil. Nor does it offer peace. It just is. And Cecil just is -- a body of bone and flesh with cognizance. He holds the book out and thinks of the places it has seen while in the possession of his lost lover. He thinks of the secrets it holds that ensures a Scout’s survival. He used to follow its rules, and he respects its lessons. He knows it is not the first of Earl’s handbooks, and with each updated version, the Scoutmaster always replaces it.

Still, Cecil flips it open to the last page, where there is a red smeared heart. Earl’s first manuel had had the heart. It had also had Cecil’s initials inscribed within, just over Earl’s. Cecil remembers discovering this when he had forgotten his own handbook and borrowed his friend’s without asking. He recalls the redhead’s horror and hope when he caught Cecil looking at that final page -- how Cecil had laughed it off. He remembers their guidebooks being upgraded and how Cecil himself had vandalized Earl’s replacement so the back page was always sporting the organ and their letters. As books cycled and their knowledge of anatomy improved, there would always be such a page in Earl’s manual.

Now, the picture is very detailed. The missing Scoutmaster had also become a chef and the picture of the heart is exact. It has three sets of initials now. Cecil is not surprised, though he had not known until now that Carlos had been included. Carlos’ last name is lovingly stylized.

The sentimentality alone makes the book a worthy offering. Of course Earl would have relied on something to keep him sane with both Cecil and Carlos stolen. And of course he would have traded himself away for their safety.

“And now he is gone. An offering to something wretched,” Cecil states, aware that the Spire is there. It may not care, but it will hear. “They are powerful, but also pathetic. They don’t deserve him.”

He places the book at the foot of the Spire. The wind makes the pages flutter. He sees a flicker of red from its most vital page.

Cecil considers what equivalent he has to give him strength. Crippling fear, and his beloved town? It is no longer Carlos.

“They don’t deserve Carlos’ mind, nor Earl’s body. I’m getting them both back, or there is no point for me being the Voice of Night Vale.”

He turns back to Steve’s car, not willing to grovel. He would never insult the Spire by doing for it what he had done for Kevin. He climbs in as the first gusts of a fierce change in pressure scoops up sand, raining it on the car. Steve whistles as the book tumbles, becoming obscured by the raised debris.

“What do you want to know?” Steve asks in the muffled space as he lets the storm surge pass by.

“I don’t want to know what they’re doing to Earl. I have an idea and confirming it won’t help me get over this,” Cecil sighs. “I just...want to know how he is doing.”

Settling more into his seat, Steve watches the funnel of desert sweeping about the brown spire. The book is missing. The car rattles. He finally says, “Earl is a lot stronger than even he knows. And that’s all the lights have to say on that.”

“Good,” Cecil says, pulling out his phone. “I’ll contact the Sheriff’s Secret Police. Let’s keep my promise to Earl and take care of Carlos.”

\--

They sit on the outskirts of town saying little for half an hour. It is the time recommended by the Sheriff in order to do a proper and safe grab of the Council’s newest patient.

Steve does need to drive Janice to Girl Guides at approximately six, so he eventually deposits Cecil at the location he isn’t supposed to know about. Before rolling away, Steve offers his home in case Cecil needs a place to stay. The host murmurs some kind of response before he is left to navigate the dimly lit halls of a building he is usually dragged into.

“He came willingly enough,” greets the officer at the desk of the abandoned shack. “We hit him in the head.”

“Hey!” snaps Cecil. “He needs that head!”

“Standard procedure,” excuses the man or woman under the hood and mask. “Now, if you want to see him before we get to work, now is the time. During the last few days, our experts have been going over what records StrexCorp failed to destroy regarding their methods and habits. Carlos’ case is unlike any we’re familiar with.”

“Kevin was...possibly not acting under direct orders,” mutters Cecil.

“If we can get a statement of all that you recall, it will be most helpful.”

Cecil glances away, watching a potted plant inch unsuspiciously towards a water cooler. “If I have to…”

“We get a lot of secrets at this place,” hums the officer. “We pride ourselves on keeping them. Or at least being able to forget them.” She (or he) adds, “We won’t blame anyone but Kevin, you know.”

“Right,” breathes Cecil. “Look, you said there were experts? Are they doctors? If Teddy is there, he helped Carlos once and…”

“I can’t disclose that information, Sir. And I’m afraid once we begin, you’ll be unable to interact with the patient for a little bit.”

“How long?”

“Best estimate, a couple of days. Longer if there are problems.”

“What kind of problems?” Cecil asks loudly, gripping the corners of the desk.

The officer hunches his or her shoulders, flinching at the snapping tone. “Did the Sheriff not consult with you about the risks?”

“Back in the parking lot?”

Cecil gets a nod. “This is not a standard re-education, Mr. Palmer. We’ve never had a chance to previously map the subject. It is not known if it is possible to recondition an individual who has been conditioned by strangers. Ironically enough, this is an experiment. We _are_ optimistic. Our bosses say we have to be. Would you like to see him before we begin?”

Cecil bobs his head, convinced that if he were to say more it would involve pleading and threats.

The corridor is grey, drab and familiar, with overhanging lights that buzz. The walls reinforce the sad song of their footfalls. Cecil recalls the bench they pass, where Carlos and Earl would wait for the radio host to finish his sessions. One time he had fallen on the floor, able to see the space from a new angle as it had spun around him. He isn’t sure when that memory exists, as Earl and Carlos had never let Cecil stumble.

He does not trust the recollection fully. Perhaps that is what Carlos’ experience will be like. Displaced moments of his past, but still himself, despite the electrotherapy and painful suggestions.

An unmarked door is pushed open and Carlos is lying on a cot. He could be sleeping.

“You have a moment,” the officer offers. “Avoid trigger words.”

Cecil drops to the side of the bed, frightened that whatever he says will not be right. It is potentially the last thing he will say to _his_ Carlos. “Oh Carlos. I hate that we even have to do this. I hate that this happened at all.”

He hesitates on touching the other. He doesn’t know what touches might constitute as triggering. His fingers ghost on the clothes that Carlos had been forced to wear when the house had stolen Kevin’s gifts. The shirt is one of Cecil’s old ones. The pants are Carlos’ own.

“But you are going to be fine, okay? You’re a scientist. And if you can remember that, you’ll be fine. A scientist is...always fine. You promised.” Fingers dare to pick at loose strands of dark hair. There is more silver than Cecil recalls seeing before. “I don’t believe everything I hear, but I always believed you. Be fine, okay?”

A tap on the shoulder tells him his time is up. The officer politely says, “We will call you, Mr. Palmer.”

Then a bag is gently dropped over Cecil’s head and he is taken away.

\--

Even though everyone knows the re-education centre is at the end of Main Street, Cecil allows himself to be disorientated on the street corner once the bag is removed and a shrub jogs away. He shivers in the heat, feeling useless.

It has been a long time since he’s been alone. He turns towards an empty house, willing to fall back on his work to survive.

Anything could happen, he tells himself. In Night Vale, anything often happens.

\--

Cecil packs up Carlos’ lab equipment. He does so in the dark, filling boxes and then carrying them down the stairs. He leaves the stairs to the basement in shadows as well, not wanting to look at the playroom. The fluorescent bulbs in the laboratory are required to properly return Carlos’ gear to their right places.

His eyes stinging, Cecil flips through a notebook wondering if anything inside will be helpful to the “experts” taking care of Carlos. Most of the notes are beyond Cecil, though -- complaints on the City Council’s writing rules, nonsense pictures, maps and equations, or half-formed ideas for later.

_‘Saw a thing. Follow up on Thursday.’ ‘Can ocelots do that?’ ‘Earl’s birthday is Friday. Reschedule the sunset test.’_

__

Cecil cradles the one that mentions Earl. He takes it and a blank book with him upstairs where he starts to work on an editorial. He’ll go in to the station tomorrow and he will again take up his position as Voice.

The page remains blank. In the next room, the Faceless Old Woman is pulling up carpet. Cecil tries to ignore her, certain that there is a way to express himself in a journalistic way. He is listless, and angry. He is back, needing some kind of explanation for his absence. For his losses, and Night Vale’s losses too. He could rally the town into helping him take Earl back. He could destroy Kevin with well-placed words. He could…

“...tell everyone I’m helpless.”

It would be honest.

Cecil sobs. He is still not liberated in any way from Kevin’s influence. Escaping that damned town no longer is enough. Raging on the radio will undo nothing.

“You used to write on your laptop,” suggests one of the cabinets.

Cecil turns to glance at the shut corner with a scowl. “Yes, well, that was stolen when StrexCorp invaded my house. I don’t own that anymore.”

“You should file a claim,” offers the pantry. A dish scrapes inside of it as if fighting for space against a warm body. “Insurance would get you a new computer.”

“Not to mention,” the cabinet adds. “Filing a claim is boring. You’ll calm down and maybe get over your writer’s block with the chore.”

“You shouldn’t write while angry, anyhow,” agrees the pantry. “If there are those that hurt you listening, they’ll count that as a victory. Let them doubt their influence over you. Get back to a normal life and that will certainly frustrate them.”

“You don’t have to feel normal,” the cabinet helpfully states. “But publically…”

Cecil considers the points made by the cupboards. “I don’t know what got destroyed in the invasion. I was a little focused on other things.”

“Oh,” the Faceless Old Woman interrupts. “I made a list. It’s on the bottom of your woodworking toolkit. The ruined items are arranged by which I liked the least. I tried to suggest to Earl that he make a claim, but he mostly ignored me. I try to be understanding.”

Cecil nods. “I see. Well…”

“You should add the living room carpet to the list of things destroyed.”

“You did that just now,” the radio host observes.

“But you can still blame it on Strex.”

“Damn right,” Cecil agrees.

His editorial is finished an hour after the claim is made. Cecil discusses how to defraud insurance companies when earthquakes are scarce. He does not mention his absence in the essay. When he gets angry, he breaks something and adds it to the tally of damaged property.

\--

He gets no phone call the following day but he does get a hefty cheque. Telling himself that it is too soon for news on Carlos’ re-education, Cecil showers, eats, and then goes to pick up a new laptop as he restocks his cabinets. He leaves hummus in the cupboards, even though they are empty of persons. He hopes people in cabinets likes hummus.

Cecil types up his editorial, then drives to his sister’s house to visit Janice and reclaim his cat. He then enters the Night Vale Community Radio building for the first time in months. There are new interns. There are a few old interns -- actually old. Maureen appears in her eighties, though she rallies the team as if she were only sixty.

“You can’t go on the air and rage about Desert Bluffs,” she warns. “I’ve got orders to cut the broadcast if…”

Cecil brings a hand up, brandishing his notes. “My kitchen storage areas have already informed me as to why. Let’s do this show the only way we know how.”

“Denial?” Maureen asks. “Then a subtle, long-planned out revenge when our enemies least expect it?”

“Denial,” Cecil agrees. “And that second thing, too. That sweet second thing.”

“Glad you’re back, Boss. Also, breaking news…” she hands him a report and meekly pushes him into his booth.

Cecil glances down to find that the lawn ornaments that had apparently been appearing all over town for the last few weeks were now dragging unwilling citizens into the soft soil of their gardens.

He is grateful for something to focus on beyond his own problems.

**  
**_“My cat can take your cat in a fight. Speaking of which, do you know where your cat currently is? Welcome...to Night Vale.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I did a decent edit. Getting this chapter sorted occurred in the midst of a very hectic week. Still hoping to get ahead with posts. Thanks for your patience and your hearts and feelings. I'll try not to break them all at one.


	6. Chapter 6

Cecil’s editorial on insurance fraud fits perfectly now that the lawn ornament crisis has destroyed many outdoor structures after citizens had clutched desperately to swingsets, fences, and gazebo banisters. Cecil’s own back yard is reduced to a battleground of upended turf and broken garden tools.

Cecil mentally adds it to the list of things StrexCorp still owes him as he calls the Sheriff from his kitchen.

“It’s good you’re back on the air, Mr. Palmer,” says a badly distorted voice. “What can I do for you?”

“You know exactly why I’m calling,” Cecil states. “How is Carlos?”

“I was just about to summon you.”

“Right,” sighs the radio host. “Is it working? Is he okay?”

“It’s only been two days.”

“And?” coaxes Cecil.

“And he isn’t anybody right now. Which is _good!_ And we don’t know if it’s not bad. How he recovers will be important for confirming what we don’t yet know.”

Cecil clutches the receiver. “What do you mean that you don’t yet know?”

“He’ll reset, we hope. But we don’t know. And if he doesn’t, we’ll see more of how deeply he’s been conditioned. I expect he’ll be awake tomorrow. Or the day after. Maybe Friday, for certain. Oh, I’m getting a shaking head. Nothing is certain on Friday.”

“I know, I reported that,” Cecil sighs. “Can I...can I come watch him?”

“I’m afraid not. We’ll call you.”

The line dies, and then the phone falls apart in Cecil’s hand. He holds a piece of plastic, no longer attached to the cord.

After staring at the useless device for a long time, he decides to take a blanket down to the playroom. On one of the cushioned, black mattresses, Cecil lies awake until he is exhausted, no closer to comfort.

\--

The house is too empty, even with the Secret Police, the nameless monsters, and the Faceless Old Woman protecting him. Cecil keeps himself focused on work and on harassing the Sheriff. It is almost enough to keep him from counting the days Earl has been in Kevin’s clutches.

He repeats to himself his promise to Earl. His boast to the Spire. His last words to Carlos.

 

\--

 

A later show reveals the cause of the ageing interns. That case resolves itself fairly neatly in ways that would have left Carlos talking for days about the scientific serendipity. Night Vale becomes flush with insurance money over the week and City Council creates a monument dedicated to the surplus, which threatens to topple over several businesses that don’t seem to mind the imminent danger due to their new insurance policies.

When Cecil gets a phone call during one of his shows, he throws on the weather and huddles against his door as an officer he knows says, “I wanted to fill you in on...oh, wait...I’m _not_ supposed to tell you this. Are you doing your show? Well, I wouldn’t want to disrupt it so you could just forget--”

“Maureen, take over,” Cecil bellows as he grabs his keys and abandons his station.

He gets to the secret centre just in time to see the Sheriff berating the officer with a bullhorn.

“Maybe...maybe Mr. Palmer is here for other reasons?” the officer hopefully suggests.

“I am not leaving until you tell me everything,” Cecil huffs.

“We could make you leave,” starts the Sheriff.

“I will bite,” the radio host warns.

“You can’t argue with that,” whispers the dejected officer.

“No, I can’t,” the Sheriff sighs, lowering his horn. “Okay, we got him conscious and focusing on some stimuli so we put him in the dark room.”

“Dark room…” Cecil murmurs. “Is that like the box?”

“You’re the only one who goes in the box,” the Sheriff dismisses. “It’s a room with obelisk walls. We left him chalk and one of his scientist team guys gave us an incorrect equation to put on the wall. We were hoping he would hate the false fact enough to correct it.”

“And?” prompts Cecil.

“And he scribbled it out,” the Sheriff admits. A gloved hand catches Cecil’s shoulder as the host starts to bounce upon his heels. “Unfortunately…he didn’t stop there. He started drawing beyond the scribbles. He started where the floor was, rubbing the chalk until it was gone. He had only filled a corner with white, and then he asked for another piece of chalk. We supplied it reluctantly, and when he finished those it could have been sand wastes he was drawing. Often, he’d start by suns, spiraling and spiraling until he covered their faces. We changed tactics then.”

“Uh huh?” encourages Cecil, also more reluctantly.

The other officer stares at his heels. “When he asked for more chalk, we suggested he transmute the spent chalk into full pieces again. We know that is impossible without an alchemist, but a scientist would tell us why that would not work.”

“He considered it for a long time,” says the Sheriff. “And then he said that his resources were limited, as if he had forgotten that. We were pretty bummed.”

“Very,” agrees the officer. “And then Carlos started smearing at the borders of the chalk with his fingers, trying to make his resources spread. We were so disappointed that we didn’t notice him rubbing his fingers raw.”

“The blood was...well...we didn’t let him get it everywhere but he tried. He’s in restraints and we’ll probably have to wipe his memory a second time.”

“And you didn’t call me sooner?” Cecil shouts.

“Be glad you were accidentally called at all,” the Sheriff mutters. “There’s good news here.”

“What good news?” challenges Cecil.

“He fell back on slogans and basic Strex advertisement. He didn’t ask to return to his previous keepers, and there was a delay in those responses. I’ve seen Strex drones immediately try to leave viscera everywhere. Carlos started that by accident.”

“Making him reset won’t be as traumatizing the second time around.” The other officer pats Cecil on his cheek.

The radio host tolerates the gesture. Barely. “If I think you’re not keeping me in the know, I promise to do everything to get me placed in that building. I’ll start with clouds.”

The Sheriff rounds on his inferior. “And this is why you don’t get promoted. _Fine_ , Mr. Palmer. I’ll call you to any future sessions.”

\--

They do.

Cecil stands against a one-way window while the Sheriff and several official looking men in black coats lounge in Lazy-Boy recliners. On the other side is a chair with Carlos.

“I’d like to be untied now,” Carlos repeats. He looks patient, despite the disheveled hair. Even City Council refuses to shave that perfect head and have, instead, found different ways to hook up diodes and electrodes.

“And as we have previously stated, you can be untied if you tell us about the things Kevin instructed you to do if you were parted from him for long,” states a disembodied voice that even Cecil cannot place.

“Oh,” hisses an officer that may or may not be woman. She or he leans towards the tense radio host, trying to speak to him without leaving his or her heated leather seat. “We discovered that there are implanted instructioned in Carlos. Did we mention that?”

Cecil shakes his head, too focused on his boyfriend to give the officer an irritated scowl.

“I can’t tell you that,” Carlos is frowning. “It’s supposed to be a secret.”

“So Kevin _did_ tell you something,” the sourceless voice observes.

“...no.”

“Lying isn’t going to work, Carlos. We know how to lie to ourselves in Night Vale. It’s not easy to lie to us.”

“I hate being in Night Vale,” Carlos growls.

Cecil flinches.

The other voice does not. “Do you remember your life from before finding Night Vale?”

“Ooooh,” the officer whispers. “Maybe we’ll find out how interlopers get in. Wouldn’t that be ironic?”

Cecil turns but another observer is already moving to slap the officer upside the head.

Carlos is staring at his feet. His old converse shoes have been laced to his ankles to keep him from removing them. “I was with Kevin.”

“He must be pretty nice,” the voice baits. “Did he talk to you?”

“Yes. Lots of times. He’s good at that,” Carlos brightens.

“Why did he talk to you?”

“Because I was good,” Carlos states proudly.

“And did he tell you to do something to stay good?”

“I...maybe. No. No he did _not_.”

“So you’re going to be bad?”

“Do you see the doubt?” the officer asks Cecil. “He hesitates more often. When he came to after the last session, we were concerned that he was asking after Kevin. But each time we do this, his statements seem more recited, rather than full of unshakable conviction.”

A knock turns several heads away from the back and forth between Carlos and the suave, reasonable ghost voice. Cecil continues to press his nose into the window, watching as Carlos struggles with the invented paradox.

“Hey,” comes a soft voice. “Cecil, I’ve been asked by the Sheriff to drive you home.”

Cecil turns to decline the invitation. His sister stares at him. She starts to stare through him.

“Ugh, don’t do that,” he whines. “I’m...Carlos is in there!”

“Yes, I can see. You’ve been here for nine hours.”

“They’ve been interviewing him for…”

Cecil’s sister would normally have the strength to pull Cecil from the room but the other occupants still help her, lifting the wriggling host until a door adds another barrier between Cecil and the patient.

“Honestly,” huffs Janice’s mom. “If it’s not the Sheriff phoning me about Steve, he’s calling about me about you. When was the last time I had to take care of you?”

“Before…before Carlos and…”

“Yes,” she sighs, taking his arm and linking it with her own. “Sorry. I just...you _do_ know that you _can_ go home sometimes, right?”

“They might need me,” argues the radio host. “To speak with him or…”

“At night,” she interrupts, “they play old broadcasts of you to the patients here. Steve told me.”

“I never...I have never heard those,” Cecil corrects.

“They don’t play it for you because _you_ being like _you_ in your shows is _all_ of your problem. But for others, it’s a safe thing to listen to. Don’t ask me to explain it. Don’t ask me anything. Steve made biscuits and you’re going to help Janice with her Subversive Television patch. That’s like...that thing you know how to do, right?”

“I...no. Television and radio are nothing alike.”

“Fake it, brother.”

“Ow, your grip...I am _older_. Remember... _ouch!_ ”

\--

The next afternoon, Maureen drops a file on Cecil’s desk. “You know, I’m thinking that with you being so unwelcome at the abandoned shack, we could get away with a few more taboo topics.”

Cecil hums, staring at the community calendar. He is thinking about how many days he is losing.

“If you had any editorials saved that we were supposed to toss out because of City Council rulings or predatory animals left starving on our front steps...”

“I wrote a thing already,” Cecil excuses, poking at a stack of paper. “It’s...inconsequential.”

“Great, neat, whatever,” Maureen mutters. “I have a thesis I need to finish. Can I borrow your laptop this week?”

“Yeah, just...yeah.”

\--

Cecil is finding creative new ways to get access into the shack. The employees have started giving up on stopping him.

Carlos’ progress is questionable.

On the day after he is released from restraints, Carlos asks to see one of his captor’s watches. He has two fingers still possessing bandages, but he ignores the wounds in order to place the item under one of the legs of his cot. He then leaps atop that corner, shattering the item.

Cecil gets a bill for the guard’s damaged timepiece. Apparently the insurance companies had wised up.

The Sheriff cautions Cecil from hoping too much over the destruction of the watch. Carlos has tried to destroy other things -- the chair in his room, one of his shirts, and the tray holding his meals.

“He’s very bad at wrecking things, save for that timepiece...which was pretty cool. Our best guess is that he is angry.”

“Angry at what?” Cecil asks.

The Sheriff shrugs. “If it’s the circumstances, that’s good. When we bring up Kevin, he seems to freeze and wait for some kind of rescue, be it a bunch of endorphins or praise. He isn’t getting either. We might move into positive reinforcement, though most of the ways he’d expect rewards are harmful. We’re also thinking of recreating a pretty profound event of his life to help him remember.”

“You’re not allowed to use the tiny people.”

The Sheriff pouts.

“They nearly killed him!”

“Yeah, focus on _that_.” The Sheriff tosses his hands up and marches off.

\--

Maureen keeps Cecil’s laptop for two extra days, claiming that her essay is incomplete and the grade is really important. After that, she forgets the device at home for another day.

Cecil inadvertently finds it sitting under her coat in the intern breakroom when he arrives early the next day. He is hoping to appeal to station management about getting their help in finding a weakness in StrexCorp. It is a fool’s errand, but Cecil’s horoscope suggests he will make a bad decision today.

A sticky-note falls out of the bag that holds the computer, and Cecil recognizes his sister’s scrawl. _‘Clear inbox this morning and I’ll take over tonight.’_

__

The radio host is having dinner with the Carlsberg's later. As he considers what the message could mean, he starts to remember instances where Maureen or the other interns insist on being the ones to acquire information that Cecil could generally find on his own. How his editorials have been written with illegal utensils and fewer resources for fact checking. How his sister had been keeping Cecil from spending long hours at his hollow house.

He had been suspicious, but distrust of one’s peers is a staple of being Night Valean. He had not had the energy to spend on acting brashly on his paranoia. He is aware that Kevin’s abuses are still clinging to him. His sense of fear is not what it used to be. Yesterday’s report of a potential Street Cleaner had proven that -- Cecil’s heart rate proving sluggish as he reminded his listeners what they could face if the sighting became verified.

_Clear inbox…_ the note instructs Maureen.

Cecil steps around the bottomless pit dominating the centre of the room and braces on the sofa. He logs into his email and finds it emptier than it has any right to be. Maureen’s kept Cecil from internet access for nearly a week and he expects a Nigerian Prince to once again require secret coordinates to a box full of baby’s teeth.

He considers calling Maureen when a message pops up.

_Another Story Has Been Dedicated to You NVVoice!_

__

Cecil frowns. He recognizes the website linked in the email. Cecil used to post his stories about Matt Hooper there.

“Don’t click on it.”

Glancing up, Cecil finds Maureen in the doorway, a tray of wriggling, steaming Starbucks in her hands. The daunting pit separates them.

“Why not?” Cecil asks. He should be angry, but her tone disarms him.

“I noticed that your fanfiction account started being active. It was last week, and since you’ve been busy and you hadn’t forced me to proofread any of your work, I got suspicious.”

Cecil glances down. “I haven’t been writing anything but pieces for the show.”

“Yeah,” nods Maureen. “Someone else has been writing in your name. Don’t...just, don’t click the link, okay? Delete it. Forget it.”

“My password was impenetrable,” protests the host.

“Sure,” Maureen gently agrees. “It could be anything. Or nothing. Please?”

Cecil sighs, confirming the elimination of the message. “Fine. I have to go bother Station Management anyway.”

“You are full of awful ideas,” Maureen laughs.

“Well, if you --”

“No,” she interrupts. “Neither of us are knocking on that door.”

Cecil nods, watching her navigate the precarious ledge of the pit before he accepts his drink. He is alright with letting Station Management have their peace. He is thinking of how his stolen laptop had saved the passwords for many of his accounts.

Only two others could have cracked Cecil’s encryption. One is painfully far from Cecil’s reach, in Desert Bluffs. The other is within walking distance yet just as unreachable -- loyal to another.

He watches Maureen pick up her bag and he returns her wan smile.

Cecil is destined to make a poor decision today.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December has been busy. Is it just me, or is this the year of awful Christmas parties? Apologies on my shoddy update schedule. Apologies on the shoddy edit. 
> 
> Next chapter is non-con/rape triggering.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer alert for explicit and deliberate rape. Discretion is advised.**
> 
> An early chapter! Should be another on Sunday.

_Readers!_

_**  
** _

_I have enjoyed NVVoice’s stories so much that I have decided to write a tribute. Is that not wonderful?_

_**  
** _

_NVVoice has just recently posted these but I was quick to put the time aside to do a proper offering. I hope it is as good as your favorite tales about the spoiled princeling and his slaves…_

_**  
** _

_Oh, I bet it is as good._

_**  
** _

_It must be._ **;)**

**  
**

* * *

* * *

**  
**

_It was a beautiful day in the large and efficient kingdom. Everything was almost at peak performance. Everything was very close to being perfect. The territory was expanding nicely and the new citizens were becoming very happy with the change._

_**  
** _

_Well…_

_**  
** _

Almost _everyone. There existed a few_ acquisitions _that were proving unruly and difficult. They were not performing at their best, nor were they perfect._

_**  
** _

_A very important Ambassador was tasked with making sure these elements behaved. He was a very likeable guy, full of patience and wisdom. And it had been his smart thinking that had lead to the kingdom’s latest gains. Capable of making sound deals, he had been trusted with convincing his favorite resource to accept its fate._

_**  
** _

_“Oh Elf Prince,” said the Ambassador. “I know it is difficult to be passed around like a trophy, but you really should know by now that commodities have no rights.”_

_**  
** _

_This sharing of information was meant as a gift, but the Elf Prince could not answer. He was gagged by a metal bit that turned his growls into pathetic mewls. He had also been restrained in other ways, with fingers scrabbling against white leather mitts, wrists chained to a hook in the floor, much like his collar. His knees were bent, forcing him to grovel with a spreader bar fixing him in place. His ass could only go up, and commodities were not granted any clothes._

_**  
** _

_The Elf had been left to the Ambassador’s private quarters, and the important man admired the display as a sunbeam warmed the scarred and freckled skin._

_**  
** _

_“You are property now,” continued the Ambassador. “You have not belonged to yourself in such a long time. In fact, I have heard the rumors of what the stupid, spoiled prince would do to you.”_

_**  
** _

_The Elf whined, unable to look back behind him, where the Ambassador spoke from._

_**  
** _

_“Tut,” the Ambassador replied. “Your loyalty to that fool only exposes how much you enjoyed being his slut. Your shameful urges have damaged my kingdom enough.”_

_**  
** _

_Unseen by the Elf, the Ambassador had the broken staff that the slave had once wielded. Giving credit where credit was due, the Ambassador had admired the skill and stamina of this very slut as he had vandalized the kingdom. The damaged staff, like all things, had been slated for repurposing. The Ambassador had requested it specifically, first._

_**  
** _

_One end was hard and smooth, polished with diligence. The other, an ugly head of crimson stone from uncivil beliefs. With this latter end, the Ambassador scraped the heavy weight of it across the floor to prod at the unprotected cock of the slave._

_**  
** _

_The elf growled, trying to shift away but having no leverage to move. The weapon that had cracked across the heads of several of the kingdom’s guardians teases at the slave’s testicals as the Ambassador shifts to stroke a quivering thigh._

_**  
** _

_“We can put all things to use,” he went on. “Even you.”_

_**  
** _

_Fingers, not gloved in the usual gold, trace the curve of the slave’s inner thigh as he simultaneously fondles the slut’s cock. The actions are affecting the hardness of that organ. The Ambassador sighs in appreciation of the sight._

_**  
** _

_He takes the other half of the wood and decides that the sharp point from the breaking is worth scraping across the flat of a vulnerable foot. The Elf twitches his toes, no doubt aware of other places he is vulnerable. Other places a piercing tool could go._

_**  
** _

_The Ambassador considers_ many _things, but is unwilling to punish the slave so severely. It would certainly be unfair to torture a slave for not being_ properly _educated. The failings of other monarchs will not be repeated here. Well, not today._

_**  
** _

_Instead, the generous Ambassador pulls some warming oil from his belt and lets the slave hear him flick the cap free. “You’re ours now, and that means we are all around you, Slave. And we are in you…”_

_**  
** _

_The beautiful elf reacts as the oil is poured over the crack of his ass, catching the sun as it glistens down warmly to fingers that catch it, right at the ready opening. An angry grunt smothers words that are hardly suitable for such a great Ambassador._

**  
**

_Three fingers, than, as warning._

_**  
** _

_The Elf throws back his head, as far as he is allowed. The chains rattle as the Ambassador probes around the entrance, gathering lubrication as he tests the limits of the muscles fighting him. He coos, reminding the other that his is simply just a toy. He knows this sensation and he should push back against the pressure._

_**  
** _

_Like a good object._

_**  
** _

_Then the Ambassador gets an idea. He slips his fingers out of the slave and stops idly grinding the jeweled staff against the other’s slowly stiffening penis. A few tools have been left nearby and the Ambassador plucks a particularly curved phallic item from the lot._

_**  
** _

_“If you’re going to salivate so willingly in protest,” he chirps, “at least put yourself to use.”_

_**  
** _

_The item has a flat base, capable of holding itself up. The Ambassador settles it underneath the slave’s chin where already a string of shining drool pools from his lips to the floor._

**  
**

_“You hardly look regal,” sneers the Ambassador. “What would your people think of you? Used by so many, and still so proud. I’ll fix that with your help. I’m going to force this inside of you soon, when you are no longer worthy of warming my fingers. And if you don’t coat it, I will cease to waste anymore oil on something so...inefficient. Do you understand, or are my instructions too complicated?”_

_**  
** _

_The Elf peers up at the Ambassador, nostrils flaring. There is a wariness in the slave’s mismatched eyes. It will be humiliating to willingly slobber onto the object with a bit gag still installed, and the Ambassador is sad he will have a less than ideal angle as he returns to preparing the slave’s ass._

_**  
** _

_Alas, sacrifices._

_**  
** _

_He beams and pats the slave’s cheek. “Don’t let me down, Slut. Or I might just fuck you with your favorite weapon.”_

_**  
** _

_He gives the wooden pole a kick as he leave’s his toy’s line of sight. It skitters across the floor with a satisfying sound. As the wood ceases its rolling, the Ambassador can hear the change in how the slave huffs and breathes. He smiles happily as he slathers his fingers again along the cleft of warm skin._

_**  
** _

_The Ambassador reenters the slave, letting his unoccupied arm encircle a trembling thigh and caress a hip. He strokes along the fold of the limb, against a belly and tracing towards the fine ruby hairs of his toy. He does not touch the cock that is helplessly hardening._

_**  
** _

_He teases the slave’s prostate, aware of where he finds it by the way the slave stalls, freezing. The Ambassador can tell through the way the slave tenses that the Elf is doing his best to withhold from begging._

_**  
** _

_He withdraws from the slave yet again, and the whine is much like a hiccup. The slave cannot shift to follow the fingers that now leave him so empty. So wanton._

_**  
** _

_“Slut,” chuckles the Ambassador, digging nails into the bone of the hip._

_**  
** _

_He slides his fingertips along the bare spine of the Elf as he circles. There are fading bruises and mending wounds. There are twitching muscles that the Ambassador wants to scrape his teeth along. He could keep his slave forever like this._

_**  
** _

_He reminds himself that the slave is going nowhere and happily picks up the object under the Elf’s dripping chin. The item is partially damp, and because the Ambassador is kind, he presses it into the chin of the other, smearing it around as his other hand allows for the chain attached to the white collar to be longer._

_**  
** _

_The slave tries to lean away but the Ambassador clutches at the slave’s head, forcing the object to rest damply against his cheek. “You need to remember that your purpose is to be used. You don’t get to like it, but cooperating will certainly go a long way.”_

_**  
** _

_Whatever the Elf would try to say is interrupted as the Ambassador presses the ginger skull down into the floor as he departs with his tool. He returns to his favorite perch, pressing the shape into the tight, ready ass._

_**  
** _

_The slave tries to shout, but the muffled protest is timed with some newly granted freedom, allowing the slave to adjust to the invasion. The phallic object had been specifically chosen due to its shorter size and odd shape. It is not designed to fully fill a standard slave, leaving the prostate untouched. It is shallow, like all the slave’s hopes are proving to be._

_**  
** _

_“Fuck yourself,” murmurs the Ambassador. “See if you can make yourself cum by pressing against me.”_

_**  
** _

_The Elf wails, tucking his head into his chest as he wriggles, trying not to comply. Like the saliva oozing over his lips, though, his cock is leaking. No matter how he clenches or twists, he can find no satisfaction._

_**  
** _

_“Were you ever this beautiful?” the Ambassador asks. “With your useless, former master, were you ever this perfect?”_

_**  
** _

_Shaking his head back and forth, the slave sobs when his new Master delicately presses against his thighs. An encouraging hand wraps around the slave’s leg to brace their bodies together. The slave thrusts back, jarring the foreign object in a way that must be promising for he repeats the action with more force immediately._

_**  
** _

_“You’re like a dog,” the Ambassador tuts, letting the slave give in to his baser instincts. “You’ll someday answer like one. You’ll be our slut. Our filthy, eager slut. You’ll soon be doing everything_ I _tell you.”_

_**  
** _

_With that, the slut keens as he spills himself onto the floor. The Ambassador reaches around to milk the rest of the orgasm free, playing with the soft flesh as the slave tries to collapse against his bindings._

_**  
** _

_“Well done,” the Ambassador praises. “Very promising. I can reward you for further good behavior. If I remove the gag and you clean up your mess on_ my _floor, I will discard your old weapons and you’ll never have to see what other uses I can find for them. Is that fair?”_

_**  
** _

_The slave chafes against his gag, eventually nodding meekly. There are tears in his eyes._

_**  
** _

_“Good boy.”_

**  
**

\--

**  
**

“You should stop.”

**  
**

Cecil hovers his finger over the page down command, mouth carefully rigid. Face determinedly blank.

**  
**

“You should really stop,” repeats the Faceless Old Woman, speaking from beneath the afghan on Cecil’s sofa. “If not for the obvious reasons, you should do it for the grammar.”

**  
**

Cecil tosses a hand back, batting at the woven fabric to silence her. There is one more tributary piece listed under the several stories that Cecil had never intended for the public to see. It is called “The Slave Learns How Dirty he Is In Cleaning.”

**  
**

The room flickers, a snap signifying a dozen fuses blowing at once. His laptop, too, beeps with a low battery warning. Maureen had not charged it and Cecil had been attempting to as he abandoned his supper invitation at his sister’s to do the thing he really should not be doing.

**  
**

Reading.

**  
**

“Don’t _ever_ hit me again,” growls the Faceless Old Woman. “And consider that stories can be lies. In fact, stories are always lies. This is meant to rile you.”

**  
**

“You could find out if this is --”

**  
**

“No!” The exclamation comes with a slap that sends the laptop clattering into the coffee table. “Get out of my room, Cecil!”

**  
**

He doesn’t have it in him to point out to her that it is _his_ house. She is only secretly living within it.

**  
**

The darkness is penetrating every appliance and corner. Cecil clutches to that sense of oblivion as a way to paint the sunlit scene from his mind. He hates how his memory inserts the sounds his Earl would make when trussed up. He remembers the games they would play and the scenarios.

**  
**

He needs to know that Earl is okay.

**  
**

In the dark of his house, Cecil finds the keys to Earl’s car. He slams the front door and notices his wallet and his own keyring is missing from his pockets as he unlocks the vehicle. He is _not_ going back into the house. Not with the one haunting his home refusing to even confirm if Earl is whimpering and entangled under another.

**  
**

She will try to stop him, but a car is not her domain. Cecil will get Earl back, somehow. _Tonight_. The engine growls like he growls. The wheels scream as he screams. He is once more tearing into asphalt as his fingers choke the wheel, making the scenery fly by.

**  
**

It is black out. For some reason there are no other cars sharing the road and Cecil vaguely recalls some warning he’s made to motorists earlier tonight. The words are gone. The meaning is insubstantial. He reports but he is simply following the motions. He cannot continue to simply accept the instructions of his peers, his family -- all those afraid to take action.

**  
**

Earl would take action.

**  
**

Carlos would have too, before he had been broken.

**  
**

Cecil remembers Carlos as he rushes passed the city borders. At the reminder, he slows abruptly. Then stops completely. With the car still humming, he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. The words from the laptop remain where they are burned into his retinas. He cannot be idle, but he had also _promised_ to take care of Carlos.

**  
**

And he has no plan.

**  
**

He never needed a plan to rescue Carlos from the flawless black condo. That had worked out. Waiting in his booth for news under the bowling alley had nearly killed Cecil. This is the same feeling.

**  
**

“This is the same,” he keens.

**  
**

He knows better. He knows he should stay. He stumbles from the seat and out of a door, staggering on the pavement while he attempts to clear his head. The air is arid, sands and distant pines. A wind carelessly masks the sound of distant jets and far off galaxies whose white noise teases only the bladed moon.

**  
**

He sniffles, feeling pathetic.

**  
**

As if in answer, the wind carries a hail. _“Cecil…_ ” It is high and breathy. A few miles away, sweetly spoken words from the Whispering Forest hum, _“You are so brave. We think you should rest under our branches. We can cheer you up. Come Cecil. Come stay.”_

**  
**

He rubs at his nose, disregarding the offer. At best, he does not want to feel calm and good about himself while Earl is tortured and Carlos remains a wreck. At worst, he can help nobody if he becomes a tree.

**  
**

He picks himself up from his huddle. A step closer to the purring engine makes whatever else the Forest say become an indecipherable song. He is decided. A side road will connect with Desert Bluffs. He could sneak into Kevin’s house and free Earl, hoping that if they are caught, the Scout could manage the rest. Or, Cecil could challenge the deal with something ridiculous, bartering the fate of both towns…

**  
**

He could also _kill_ his double.

**  
**

He shuts out the mournful night breeze and thinks about his promise to the Spire as he resumes his route. It might be the only promise he keeps now.

**  
**

If Kevin has anything at all to say to Cecil, they can exchange words in person.

**  
**

The headlamps cut the darkness like knives. The car cuts into a figure on the road like a blunt force weapon. Cecil has time enough to see the shape flailing into his path an instant before he is upon it. In that moment, he mistakes it for a tree; a person; _not_ a deer, before Earl’s vehicle jutters over it.

**  
**

Cecil brakes, knuckles tightly locked. He peers back into the red wash of the brake lights and sees something trying to pick itself up. He reaches for his phone and realizes it is not with him. He shifts into park and cautiously climbs out.

**  
**

“Are you alright?!”

**  
**

The figure rightens. Then sways. “Mr. Palmer?”

**  
**

The voice is eerily high. Its tone is polite, despite having just been pulled under an automobile. Cecil finds its macabre movement to be less terrifying as the speaker shakes something like loose branches from its hair.

**  
**

Then Cecil realizes that those _are_ actually branches. He also comes to terms with where he knows the voice from. “Richard? _Intern_ Richard?”

**  
**

“Yeah, hey. We...yes. That is us. Me! That is me...”

**  
**

Cecil stares, momentarily forgetting the cause of why his pulse is racing in his ears. Limping closer to the sphere of the headlights, Richard is not quite human. Cecil sees a form that possesses a torso of a human, but with barky trunks as legs. They are uneven, yet responsible for Richard surviving a car barreling over him.

**  
**

“I didn’t see you,” Cecil exclaims. “Are you...weren’t you…?”

**  
**

“We were worried. Oh, no. Not we. They. Now we are apart. I’m... _I’m_ supposed to tell you that we...they, the Forest...they need to remind you to keep your promises.” Richard has no face, but his arms extend into a gnarled plea. “Look after Carlos. Do not go back.”

**  
**

“I can’t help Carlos. He’s with more qualified individuals.”

**  
**

“We...they disagree. Carlos will appreciate that it was _you_ who helped him, in the end. Keep your promises. I’m here to offer support. I will keep my promises, too.”

**  
**

“You’re back to file the ad contracts you never finished filing?” Cecil deadpans.

**  
**

Richard rustles as he nods.

**  
**

“Weren’t you happy as a tree? Coming back as an intern like...like that will be difficult.”

**  
**

Richard shrugs. “I was happier as a tree before that awful version of you spoke with us. After Kevin, many of our trees were cut down. The Forest has not been the same. I really like that you’re back, and safe. Don’t give that away.”

**  
**

Cecil sighs, peering up the path where the headlights don’t reach.

**  
**

“If you must go, well, good luck,” Richard starts. “But perhaps you could offer me a lift to my house first? Walking is not easy.”

**  
**

“Get in,” Cecil offers, surprised at how little he hesitates.

**  
**

\--

**  
**

Richard creaks when he moves. He gives off a scent that Cecil can only describe as soothing. The radio host turns the car around and directs it with a more leisurely pace to the address his old intern gives him.

**  
**

The house appears dark as they arrive. Richard climbs out and Cecil yawns, unhappy with the mood forced upon him, but too worn to do anything about it. “Do you have keys so you can get in?”

**  
**

Richard shrugs. “I will wait in the yard. Please look after Carlos.”

**  
**

He lumbers steadily towards a raised flower bed. Cecil watches for a moment, ultimately deciding to do exactly that.

**  
**

\--

**  
**

“It’s late,” Cecil is told by no voice at all. “Everyone is sleeping in the centre.”

**  
**

The holographic clerk frowns as she colours symbols into a crossword. “Uh, not everyone,” she corrects the sourceless tone. She has yet to look up at the visiting radio host. “The scientist isn’t sleeping.”

**  
**

“Can...can I see him?” asks Cecil.

**  
**

“You don’t want to,” the voice dismisses. “He’s not at his best. You are not at yours. Even having you two encounter one another will be damaging. The processes now are delicate.”

**  
**

“I just…”

**  
**

“Go home, Mr. Palmer.”

**  
**

The holographic woman shifts, her chair rotating to swing her away. “The patient is reaching new decibels again…”

**  
**

Cecil braces on the desk, following her gaze to see what monitor she is regarding. The screens are all blank. “Which patient?!”

**  
**

“Go home, Mr. Palmer,” repeats the voice.

**  
**

It is not enough of an answer, but when Cecil decides that nothing is going to take him from this, his second quest of the night, he finds he is suddenly outside. The abandoned shack is across the street with the front door boarded up.

**  
**

Exhausted, Cecil reluctantly retreats.

**  
**

\--

**  
**

In her anger, the Faceless Old Woman has not ransacked his house. The power is still out though, and his laptop is long past mournfully beeping on the floor. The fusebox hides within Carlos’ lab and with each step down the pitch black stairs, Cecil feels the tranquility Richard had given him ebb away.

**  
**

He gropes about, finally flicking on the master switch controlling the home’s power. The bulbs have been thankfully unaffected by the Faceless Old Woman’s tantrum. Cecil, begrudgingly, also notes that he had never attempted to touch her before. Perhaps she has a right to be angry.

**  
**

_He_ has a right to be angry.

**  
**

Not at her, but at Kevin. At StrexCorp for having the right resources to keep their stolen prizes. At life for creating these circumstances. At the secrets of the night clerks treating Carlos.

**  
**

At himself.

**  
**

He rubs his finger around his eyes and then finds the shelf just inside the door to Carlos’ laboratory. It holds DVDs and a modest recording device with tripod. Cecil picks one at random, clutching it to the void forming in his chest as he enters the playroom. There is a disassembled television and player. Earl had been intending to upgrade the system before everything had gone wrong.

**  
**

Cecil reconnects the device and then drags a mattress down from a wall. A press of a button coaxes the DVD to play.

**  
**

For a moment, the camera shakes it is settles on Carlos. The scientist’s lab coat is covering flannel and the man is bent over a drafting sheet.

**  
**

“I can’t believe you’re filming this,” he murmurs without looking up.

**  
**

“Cecil likes to watch you work,” says a warm voice from behind the camera. “I also want to make sure that the tripod is salvageable. It did fall into the Gorge.”

**  
**

Carlos glances up, squinting at a place below the recorder’s line of sight as if to reassess its holder. “I didn’t know you got it repaired, Earl. I’ll...cancel the online order for a replacement. That was premature of me.”

**  
**

“Aren’t you the rich guy?” Earl teases, coming into sight as he steps around a cluttered table. Several experiments have been pushed to new locations to allow Carlos the room to draw. “Maybe we can afford a shiny new tripod if they are for our videos.”

**  
**

Carlos scowls. “Actually, I’m a little concerned with how freely we spend things on...toys. Which is great. I mean...they’re great! But if we don’t need a new tripod, or we can design and create our own toys now that we’re narrowing in on the specifics of what interests us…” He indicates his paper.

**  
**

Earl settles over his shoulder, reaching across to frame Carlos. The gesture is protective. Invasive. Carlos leans into the chest by his ear.

**  
**

“Is that...are you…?”

**  
**

The camera catches the grin as it starts to overtake Carlos’ features. He inhales the scent of his companion, smugly enjoying the way Earl is coming to understand something.

**  
**

On a mattress far removed from the scene, Cecil hugs a pillow and watches the expressions on the people in the video. He devours their body language as roles start to reverse.

**  
**

“It’s a chair and desk fixture,” explains the scientist. “Any one of us could sit and...do our work. But this piece here binds another to the front of the chair, forcing them to rest their chin on the lip of the seat between…”

**  
**

“Yeah?” Earl asks. His voice is much thicker.

**  
**

“You know, this outline is terrible,” realizes the scientist. “I could demonstrate my point better if you want to kneel.”

**  
**

Earl is already crumbling until half of his hair remains visible. The desk muffles his: “If you want me to move the camera…”

**  
**

“No.” Carlos shakes his head, brushing at ginger strands that brush against his lap. He then brings his attention fully to the video recorder. “Let’s leave Cecil a bit to imagine, shall we? I had this idea, after all, wondering about how _you_ sit, Cecil, when you write your stories. The desk in your office is pretty boring. Perhaps affixing an addition to your station will better... _inspire_ you.”

**  
**

The scientist playfully winks at the camera before glancing down again at the unseen occupant before him. “Okay, okay. Stop with the nuzzling for just two theoretical minutes. I want you to...pouting is _fine_. I want you to put your knees up against the chair legs. Yes. Pretend there’s a bar. I’ll install one, though we’ll need the measurements for your length. Yes, your _length_.”

**  
**

Cecil listens to Carlos describe his plans -- room for an adjustable, mounted dildo. A rack below the chair for clamps to be chained to. A collar that connects to the seat, forcing an occupant wearing an open-mouthed gag to take whatever they were made to take.

**  
**

Cecil listens for Earl’s smothered reactions, wondering if the invention had ever been completed. Perhaps it had been meant as a surprise. This DVD possesses no date on the label. Cecil had chosen it at random, having never seen it before. He starts to understand why neither had shown him when, as Carlos bites his lip and tries to keep from crumpling into his drafting outline, the tripod crumples for him.

**  
**

A vertigo spiral of the room precedes a static, jarring thud. A blank screen follows. Carlos, or Earl -- the sound quality fails here -- says, “I think we broke…”

**  
**

Cecil breaks, crying out a jagged note as he thrusts against his pants and the pillow.

**  
**

They had once been so beautiful. Cecil’s boyfriend had once been so safe. They had once loved him.

**  
**

_“With your useless, former master, were you ever this perfect?”_

_**  
**_He sobs until he falls asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

It is a good thing that Maureen finds out that Cecil has read the emails he had promised to delete. She takes the initiative to write the editorial and outline the expected news so Cecil does not degenerate his programme into screaming at Kevin.

“It’s _still_ a battle,” she says. “We’re _still_ at war. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

She pushes Cecil to the filing room to help Richard orientate himself with his old jobs until the show begins. Time spent in the enclosed space, smelling needles and loam, helps Cecil remain hollow. He automatically delivers the news and weekly schedule as written. He plays out the weather, thinking about how there is so much in what he doesn’t say. Of this, there will be much that the town knows.

“That was a really good show, Cecil,” Richard sings softly as he digs in an empty planter left in the lobby of the station. Richard compliments everyone.

Cecil hums, certain that his helpless rage will start to simmer again when he leaves the presence of the thick-skinned young man. Would it be weird to take a piece of Richard with him?

He decides it would be rude, Richard having just resumed his duties. Cecil gives a half-wave in farewell as he steps out into a blustery evening. Houses glow with warm lights or red sigils. Cecil hopes his fellow Night Valians are biding their time. If Carlos recovers, the whole town could do something for Earl.

_When_ Carlos recovers…

At the abandoned warehouse, the holographic secretary has been replaced by the female officer in the black ballgown. She appears to have modified the dress into a pant suit. It still spills sparkles across her desk.

“Oh, hi!” she chirps.

“Um, hello,” greets Cecil. “Uh, is...is Carlos well? Last night he wasn’t sleeping.”

Beneath her mask, the woman frowns. “I’ll check his file. Here we go. Yes. Yup. They were able to exhaust him enough to get a few hours. They’re taking him to session soon, again. You could talk to him but he won’t remember anything you say. But hey, Mr. Palmer, there’s some good news. Our ‘experts,’” -- she quotes the air with her gloved fingers, somehow instilling a sense of respect into the gesture -- “have come to realize that if they let Carlos have the freedom to control things like when he turns the lights on and off, adjusts the volume of the radio, and so forth, he seems a lot happier. They have given him chalk again and he just draws clocks. He is responding to questions, though we don’t often understand the answers. Helped us fix a drainage problem for another patient, though he uses his safeword whenever we ask about what he remembers from Desert Bluffs.”

“Do you stop asking questions?” Cecil demands, leaning over the desk.

The woman pats his hand. “Yes. Yes we do. It’s a new concept for the ‘experts’ but they deem that they get a lot more trust from their subject. Though they are annoyed that they can’t use that trust to betray him for answers. It’s weird: trust. You lose it once…” she shrugs. “They’re being really careful because of how delicate this is.”

Cecil swallows. “Well...good.”

The officer sits back, her chair squeaking. “I have to tell you, as promising as this is, everyone is divided on how useful the re-education ultimately will be for Carlos. Half of us think it’s working, just taking more time than usual. The other half thinks that StrexCorp’s got instructions buried down there that Carlos is guarding, or repressing, or not even aware of. Unless we push hard, we’re left with assumptions and that safeword is difficult to work around.”

“Please don’t abuse the safeword. I mean, you do it for me but…”

“Our new mayor is instituting new rules into things like that,” informs the officer. “You may notice things are different in your next session. But I am supposed to ask, if you’re willing...do you want to pose as Kevin to see if we can get around that obstacle? Maybe ask Carlos to show that he still remembers any hidden plans or…”

“No!” Cecil snaps. He jerks back from the support of the desk as if burned. “No, no I will _not!_ ”

The woman deflates, waving a hand as if to clear the air of the idea. “Fair enough. It was worth a try. Some of those involved in the case might be interested in reminding you of how you’re being inflexible…” she leans over conspiratorily, “but you let me know who, and I’ll shoot them. I’ve never killed anyone with my gun,” she proudly finishes.

Cecil nods weakly, arms tight around his frame. He knows his emotions are fraying again. He suspects that if anyone were to insinuate that he isn’t doing enough by refusing to be like Kevin, Cecil may shoot them himself.

The woman is ruffling through a stack of pink paper, stacked thin by a vintage printer. “I would suggest, Mr. Palmer, that you start to bring some of Carlos’ things here. Ideally, if we can get him back to himself and have him voluntarily reveal the things he remembers Kevin doing, well…”

“I could bring him Big Rico’s,” Cecil offers. “His lab was close to there and it’s mandatory so he would have eaten there a lot…”

She shakes her head. “Actually, we’re not legally allowed to hold Carlos here if he asks to leave...except that since his kidnapping, he hasn’t had any of Rico’s pizza sauce. It’s our _only_ right to hold him.”

“Oh.”

She flashes her teeth. “It’s my favourite loophole. I wish you a good evening, Mr. Palmer. I’ll see you Friday, when you sleep. You won’t see me.”

“...right.”

\--

Cecil pulls some stale blankets from the linen closet and sets up a small fort on the mattress in the playroom. He watches another DVD in the dark, the playroom fixtures behind him a jungle of shadows that had not existed when this video had been made.

Earl and Carlos are doubled over a cage, fingers clasped as Cecil, more sure of himself, circles them.

This had been a night when Carlos had used his safeword for his second time. At the utterance, Earl slips himself free of his bindings without help, ready to assist Cecil unlatch the overwhelmed and embarrassed scientist.

They always honoured safe words. Earl always knew when to get free and to take charge, despite how eager he was to submit.

Cecil hugs a pillow in place of either of his lovers. He falls asleep after he sets up the player to replay the scene.

\--

Cecil wakes up with cold feet and a mind full of television noise. He then hears the doorbell and drags himself from the mattress with a lethargy that invites whoever waits on his stoop to find some other doorway to haunt.

The Sheriff is at the door, wearing a bright bonnet to match his dress. Cecil squints at the man, overwhelmed by the sun and the pink. “You could have just called.”

No doubt the Sheriff is regarding Cecil’s state. His clothes from the day prior is rumpled. He smells of stale sweat, and there is a crusty stiffness under Cecil’s lips.

“I tried.”

“Your cellphone is in the bathroom drain,” the Faceless Old Woman informs from the mailbox. “It didn’t want to fit at first, but then I _made_ it fit.”

“You broke my phone?” Cecil snaps, surprised at her, and at himself. He needs a coffee and a shower. By rights, he should also have a whole day before he needs to be presentable.

“I broke it two days ago. You didn’t ask until now. Nobody touches me, Cecil.”

The Sheriff raises an eyebrow.

Cecil ducks his head and blearily mumbles, “Why did you need to call me, Sheriff?”

“Carlos asked for you. Would you like to get…”

The pink dress sussarates when the radio host pushes passed the Sheriff.

“Well, one of you looks lovely,” the mailbox judges.

“Thanks ma’am.”

\--

  
Cecil rides with the Sheriff and does start to put effort into his appearance. The back of his hand scrapes away the dried drool from his jaw. He combs his fingers through his hair and pulls at the wrinkles in his shirt.

“Rough night?”

Cecil grunts, aware that he has skipped eating so missing a toothbrush isn’t such a concern.

“Well,” the Sheriff conversationally says, “the town is doing so much better now that you’re back on your show. We are all still worried, but I’m no longer so concerned for the state of Night Vale.”

“I’m just a Voice,” Cecil admits.

“Ex _actly_.”

They park and Cecil follows the Sheriff through a back door in the abandoned lot, nodding out of habit when he is told to disregard any recollection of this door later.

Carlos wants to see him and Council is letting them meet, so that should be good!

Carlos wants to see him!

Inside the building, florescent lights take over for the hot sun and Cecil is led to a room he is not familiar with. He is motioned inside.

Carlos sits in plain clothes on a cot. The room is sparse with a small table and chair fixed to the floor. A window sits blankly, reflecting nothing. The glass could be obelisk stone for all Cecil can guess. Chalk sticks to it badly, but someone has tried to write on it. There are more numbers and equations on the pale walls where the chalk has been used. Cecil does not recognize any of the messages. There are clock hands stacked neatly on the table, but no other things to denote dissected timepieces.

There are new burns peeking through Carlos’ hair. It is tied back, but no less disheveled than Cecil’s own.

“Uh...hey,” whispers the radio host.

He fidgets as he is scrutinized. The inspection is wordless and seems to take a long time. Finally, Carlos speaks. “You’re not...Kevin.”

“No,” Cecil breathes.

“You look like...Kevin.” The hesitation seems to follow a mental-check made by the scientist. He is picking his words carefully.

“I’m not _him_.”

The affirmation doesn’t change Carlos’ expression into one of relief. He remains guarded, his reactions locked down while Cecil’s spills out.

“You have eyes.”

“Uh huh.” Cecil nods. He wants to rush over but knows to stay back. He senses the Sheriff would pull him back, so he distracts his feet by shifting. He taps his fingers against his legs. “And I would _never_ hurt you.”

“But I remember,” argues the man on the cot, refuting with some evidence, though he hesitates when he cannot show anything tangible. “I can’t tell the difference between you and...Kevin. Up here.” He taps at his skull. “I try, but…”

Carlos starts staring at the floor, brow furrowed as he internally analyses what he knows and what he does not know that he knows. “I thought seeing you would sort something, but...no.”

There is a note of sadness in Carlos’ admission, but Cecil does not think the other is upset. This is just another theory that eludes him. Cecil’s own anguish is not a factor in Carlos’ mood.

A set of hands take Cecil by the shoulders and the Sheriff, garish in the room’s illumination, says, “We’ll let you think and then we can come back if you call.”

“I like the pink,” Carlos responds.

The Sheriff beams.

Cecil is graciously drawn towards the door when Carlos stands up suddenly. “Wait!”

The radio host pulls his rumpled sleeve from the Sheriff's lacy grasp. They both turn to see Carlos gnawing on his lower lip as he bores holes through Cecil. “Did you ever hit me?”

A hand steadies Cecil as he thinks of slipping out of this moment. His insides drop but his feet remain under him. Time moves like the broken clock hands.

The answer is earnest and almost scripted from his fear of it. “Yes. I have hit you, Carlos. But...it was _always_ with your consent.”

Carlos frowns, once more internalizing the data as he sets it against what he is slowly coming to comprehend. “Why would I ever consent to that?”

The Sheriff offers an encouraging nod and Cecil tries to keep meeting Carlos’ scrutiny. “Because certain levels of pain are...stimuli? And it’s sometimes normal to experiment with them. With feelings or body reactions in...in a controlled setting and with someone you trust?”

“That...doesn’t sound like...maybe, maybe it is something I...hmmm.”

Cecil wilts. He understands that he has ruined things by insisting on a bold and varied sex life. The playroom and the rules. The training and the acting. The lies. A part of him had anxiously expected this when he debated re-education. Steve is wrong and this truly **is** Cecil’s fault.

The beautiful Sheriff leans in. “Carlos, did you want to articulate, perhaps, how you feel about this and what you remember from the place with Kevin?”

“Crimson,” Carlos automatically states, flinching.

“Okay,” whispers the Sheriff nicely. “You don’t have to, Carlos. We will go now.”

Cecil swallows, being crowded out the door. He is glad for the exit, yet also wants to cling to the frame of the jamb. He wants to be present for any and all other questions.

From the security of his bed, with a whole room safely between them, Carlos asks, “Will you be back?”

“Anytime you ask,” Cecil proclaims before the Sheriff can.

“Good,” Carlos nods, picking at his white shirt like he does not know what to make of the item. “That’s...that’s good.”

\--

The Sheriff drives Cecil to the grocery store, helping to carry items that Cecil doesn’t know if he needs. Either Josie or the Faceless Old Woman has given him a list. Cecil suspects that the kindness is not meant as a service, but rather, Cecil makes the Sheriff look so much more refined by being so mussed up and raggedy.

Cecil has time enough to shower and put on the last of his clean clothes before he goes to be Night Vale’s Voice. When he is home again, the house is quiet and the lingering praise from Richard reminds Cecil to take better care of himself. If he fails, Steve may decide to drop in again.

Cecil methodically straightens up the place, picking bits of cell phone from the drain and preparing meals to heat up later. He carefully bathes Khoshehk and uses the leaking wounds that his cat gives him to polish his blood stones.

When Carlos had been with Cecil, everything had been easier. With Carlos and Earl, the chores had often completed themselves -- literally. But Cecil can’t save Earl. He can’t take care of Carlos, or, it seems, himself. The scientist’s oaky, hesitant tone plays in Cecil’s mind, asking him if he would ever hit Carlos, and why?

Cecil stops with the dishes because he is liable to break something. He takes the stairs down to where the playroom is and decides that he will destroy what he can in this room. Firstly, he kicks over the cage, listening to its clatter bounce from the walls. A chair overturns, though the metal frame is designed to be sturdy to prevent it from tipping when holding an occupant. The effort to upend it leaves the radio host gasping. A chain attached to it jingles as it adjusts. Cecil scoops a spreader bar from the floor and whips it at a wall. It clangs loudly, but simply damages the paint. Most items are fixtures, designed to prevent a thrashing, grown man from harming himself through their destruction.

Cecil’s watery eyes fall on the more delicate components of the fucking machines, but he does not advance on them. Carlos had built those. Like the hypothetical chair in the video, Carlos had conceived and then created the complex devices.

_“Why would I ever consent to that?”_

Cecil recalls how nervous the scientist had been, unveiling the result of two months of late nights. It had confounded Cecil to imagine Carlos expecting rejection. Earl and Cecil had leaped at the chance to consent to being strapped down to experience unseen fucking machines and the slow torment of an orgasm teased or denied.

God, he’s hard even remembering that. Why is that? Why had they consented to that? What is wrong with them?

Cecil gives one of the boxes, now stored against the container of toys, a gentle tap with his foot. Cecil’s machine had been white. Earl’s olive. Time and consideration had been put into these. The radio host goes to where the DVDs are kept and tries to find the one from that scenario.

Instead, he finds Carlos’ first video:

_“We’ll start slow.” Cecil’s voice._

_Carlos nods, shirtless under his coat, but still dressed in pants. He reluctantly fiddles with his belt. “I’m...sorry. I know I asked for it just now. Just you and I, but...we can, if you want, Earl can join...”_

_“Earl is okay with just you and me for this session, if that is what you want, Carlos.”_

_A shoulder shrugs, uncertain. “I don’t want him feeling left out.”_

_“Your comfort is what’s important, and Earl understands and will agree with me. He’s not going to feel slighted.”_

_A nod, small._

_“Are you sure you want me to film this?”_

_Carlos glances up. “Uh...for science. Yeah. I mean, if...I’d like to analyse myself in a different state of mind. You know, so I can decide if this is for me. Or…” He looks away, still toying with the belt. “It’s not for showing others, though if Earl thinks I’m filming us and he’s not invited…”_

_Cecil crawls into view, more comfortable in tight white leather than Carlos looks in his own lab coat. The radio host stops to press a nose into Carlos’ neck, nuzzling. “Earl loves you and knows this is a big step. There’s no rules for how you are supposed to feel. You aren’t comfortable with an extra set of eyes, and that’s okay. It’s just you, and me. And you can film yourself and watch it privately, or share it if you want. That’s up to you. Okay? If you want to stop at anytime, you know your safeword.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“And that safeword is?”_

_“Crimson.”_

_“Tell the camera.”_

_Carlos huffs, nervously laughing. He peers around Cecil to look at himself. “Future me, the safeword is ‘crimson’.”_

_“And to reiterate how this is going to go, I’m going to pin you against this corner, and I’m going to say naughty things about you and your curiosity. If I think it’ll stimulate you, and if the mood takes me, I’ll use your belt to strike you, but nicely. No marks.”_

_“Oh God,” Carlos squirms._

_“And we’ll play a scene where you’re made to see where that your curiosity got you caught by me: the scary thing you were investigating. And I,” Cecil kisses, punctuating each word with a nip along Carlos’ distracting jaw, “will investigate_ you _.”_

_“Please…”_

_“Colour?”_

_“Cecil, I’m…”_

_Cecil draws back, demanding, “Colour?”_

_“Oh, uh...purple.”_

_Then Carlos is pinned, arms roughly locked at his side as Cecil whispers, “You know how to stop this,” before hissing, “Look who just wandered into the part of town nobody dares to visit...a scientist, alone, because he’s soooooo self-reliant…”_

_Carlos squeaks, no longer thinking about how awkward he had been, asking for a bondage scene. No longer worried about Earl being left out, or how his request to let Cecil think of a scenario and record the reactions could be considered strange._

_“I think I’m going to pick you apart piece by piece, to see what makes...you...tick…”_

The sound of a belt being ripped through its loops covers the sound of Cecil, on the mattress, wheezing through an orgasm.


	9. Chapter 9

His head aches in the morning. Cecil rolls across the mattress, uncertain if his neck will be able to properly support his skull if he rises. His dreams were confusing.

 

The most he can piece together now are from chases through a city much like his, but brighter. He doesn’t know if he is running from something, or chasing another, but he always ends up in a room where he fucks a stranger who is not Carlos, but very close. A vortex starts to open and he knows he is out of time. Sometimes the stranger wants him. Sometimes the stranger doesn’t. Sometimes the room changes, or a marching band clashes by, or tiny people pour through the openings like a living shadow and the words the stranger shouts when this happens aren’t recognizable. It leaves Cecil trying to tell the difference between safe words, encouragement, or ancient warnings about some upcoming, insidious change to his life.

 

He lies listlessly, trying to grasp some kind of meaning meaning and being left with only the bones of bleached phantom settings behind his eyelids. He should really sleep longer, and in a proper bed.

 

Cecil crawls to his knees and then staggers up the stairs.

 

\--

 

Khoshehk swats at flies as Cecil makes himself eat. He then finds himself unexpectedly invited to the Green Market by Dana. There is an hour between press conferences and she mandates he join her like old times.

 

The police cruiser in front of his house serves as the invitation.

 

\--

 

Dinner with Dana is more enjoyable than Cecil would have expected. He has jambalaya on the wharf that overlooks the endless sand-wastes, and learns that because she is mayor, none of the crawdads are allowed to crawl out of the styrofoam containers to escape. Cecil has never had a whole jambalaya before. A sudden press conference ends their casual bid for lost normality and Cecil easily witnesses the event, able to represent the Community News as Maureen arrives late due to Richard’s limited mobility.

 

Glad to have not missed the story, Maureen invites Cecil to join her and Richard for coffee before work. Cecil accepts, settling under the leafy shadow of Richard and feeling his tension fall away.

 

Nobody has asked him about the leaked sex fiction he had once written. News in Night Vale spreads fast and Cecil -- _obviously_ NVVoice -- might worry that there are hidden stares and conversations being made regarding the stories and their tributes. He breathes deeply, letting things like Richard’s needles or Dana’s power complex and ability to manipulate the media allow for him to enjoy his beautiful home with its creeping citizens with some disillusions of peace.

 

Maybe no one brings it up because it means he can solicit them for help. Earl is still out there. Why is no one helping him? Why is Cecil having coffee and jambalaya when Carlos is frightened and Earl is trapped?

 

Being around the tree-like intern, Cecil analyzes these concepts without being pulled into the trap of helpless frustration. “Can I borrow your phone?” he asks.

 

\--

 

Richard relinquishes his old mobile. The intern no longer wishes to use it and while the model is outdated, the re-education centre needs a way to reach Cecil if Carlos asks for him again. The radio host puts together several of Carlos’ things and waits for a summoning.

 

By the end of the next day, he calls them to be sure they know his contact has changed. They know. They insist that they do in song.

 

He is running out of home videos and is deliberately avoiding the internet. His Tumblr is always cycling an infinite queue without his help and he doesn’t want to accidentally-on-purpose revisit the story account he never created to read anymore tributes.

 

He waits, dozing under the weight of his cat as his laptop remains uncharged.

 

By the third night, Cecil decides to visit Carlos with a box of his things.

 

“Hey. Um, he hasn’t asked for me, has he?”

 

The holographic woman glances up from where she is filing her nails into the filing cabinet. She eyes the box, then Cecil. She promptly flickers out of existence.

 

Cecil drums his fingers against the box, awaiting her return or a replacement.

 

When neither come, Cecil places the box onto the desk and invites himself to navigate the hall. The artificial lights buzz. There are no signs of others, which makes Cecil uncomfortable. The late hour and the stillness are responsible for the unease. He accepts that, finding a door that he thinks is where Carlos’ room had been.

 

It is not locked. He opens it to find an empty space with familiar chalk notations, a bed and a table. Dozens of clock hands are scattered across the floor. Cecil is about to speak when he hears a voice from inside the obelisk-like window. The reflectionless square, still scarred with failed writing attempts, holds a muffled conversation on its other fathomless side.

 

“Do you know why you’re angry?”

 

“No. Yes...no.” It is Carlos.

 

Cecil squeaks, pressing himself against the black barrier. He can feel the heat leach from his hand, but this does not interrupt the interrogation. It may have influenced it, though.

 

“Are you mad at Mr. Palmer?”

 

“Cecil?” Carlos asks. The identification makes the radio host’s heart jump and he covers his mouth and strains harder to hear.

 

“Yes, are you mad at Cecil?”

 

A pause, before: “I’m mad at everyone. I’m mad at him. Why does he have to look like that?”

 

“Like who?”

 

“You know!”

 

“I don’t. Who does Cecil look like?”

 

Carlos growls. Cecil imagines him tugging at his beautiful, greasy hair. “I don’t want to see him,” the struggling scientist finally murmurs.

 

“See who?”

 

“It’s my fault.”

 

“Carlos, can you tell me why?”

 

“Can you make me forget again?”

 

“Not before you give us some explanations. Would talking to Cecil help?”

 

The ‘no’ is muttered. Dejected.

 

The unfamiliar individual asking the questions seems to pull the words from Cecil’s own mind. His arms are going numb where they brace against the inked surface.

 

“Is Cecil the problem?”

 

“I can’t tell him.”

 

“Then tell _me_ ,” the voice entreats. “Tell me what you cannot tell Cecil.”

 

“I know what’s going to happen.”

 

“What is going to happen, Carlos?”

 

There is a cough. It sounds wet. Strangled. Cecil thinks it might be a sob. “Please, please make me forget. Because Cecil’s going to hate me…”

 

“No,” Cecil breathes, slapping his palm against the wall. It gets very hot and he wonders if he has been heard. He hopes he has been. Then the lights go out and something zips over the radio host’s head.

 

He panics, reliving leather and loss of control under a specific, _hated_ set of hands. Hands like his own. He yells, primal and terrified as he tries to rip away from his assailant. Never. He will _never_ again --

 

Almost immediately, the sack is loosened and Cecil pries it from his face in a flurry of motion. He finds himself in a break room. Blinking at the pale, dusty light fixtures, his gasping subsides when he realizes that no one is close to him. An overpowering scent of coffee becomes the only thing that overpowers.

 

Across a table sits a hooded figure. Unlike other hooded figures that Cecil’s encountered, this one does not trigger tinnitus in Cecil’s ears, or sets his fillings painfully vibrating. This one takes an open tray of stale cookies and pushes it towards the shaken host.

 

“Oh, um...no thank you,” Cecil peeps.

 

The figure shrugs, drifting towards a coffee machine that is percolating.

 

“Were...you the one interrogating Carlos?”

 

The black robed creature begins to fix itself a cup, stirring sugar and dried creamer together as it waits for the filter to finish dripping. It gives no indication of having heard Cecil’s question.

 

“Is he going to get better? Can you tell him I’ll never hate him?”

 

Cecil hears a patter and glances down to see a splotch of blood on the table. He rubs a backhand under his nose and it comes away wet.

 

The figure is regarding him silently.

 

“I just want him feeling safe,” Cecil tries to say before his eyes roll back into his head.

 

\--

 

He wakes in his bed, unsure of the hour. Something bumps the corner of the bedframe and Cecil clumsily tries to sit up, remembering terror so recently. Blindfolds and Kevin. Someone curses and it is not that monster, but someone else. Then, there is a flash like a popping light bulb.

 

.--

 

-

 

 

* **]** _**&** ^_

 

\--

 

...---...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\--

 

“You’re not...Kevin.” Carlos is speaking.

 

“No,” Cecil breathes. Then he thinks he’s done this before. He is in a room and dressed as shabbily as Carlos is. But Carlos is not in generic white. He has a lab coat on like a security blanket. The Sheriff at Cecil’s shoulder is in a bright pink dress.

 

“You look like...Kevin.” Carlos murmurs. A hesitation seems to follow a mental-check by the scientist. He is picking his words carefully.

 

Cecil finds his responses requiring less work. It is as if he is trapped in a game of _deja vu_ , but his primary concern is with communicating to Carlos that, “I’m not _him_.”

 

The affirmation doesn’t change Carlos’ expression into one of relief. He remains guarded, his reactions locked down while Cecil’s spills out.

 

“You have eyes.”

 

“Uh huh.” Cecil nods. He wants to rush over and knows to stay back. He senses the Sheriff would pull him back, so he distracts his feet by shifting. He taps his fingers against his legs. “And I would never hurt you.”

This has been said before. Carlos will soon ask if Cecil has ever struck him.

“But I remember,” argues the man on the cot, refuting with some evidence, though he hesitates when he cannot show anything tangible. “I can’t tell the difference between you and...Kevin. Up here.” He taps at his skull. “I try, but…”

Carlos starts staring at the floor, brow furrowed as he internally analyses what he knows and what he does not know that he knows. “I thought seeing you would sort something, but...no.”

 

There is a note of sadness in Carlos’ admission, but Cecil does not think the other is upset. This is just another theory that eludes him. Cecil’s own anguish is not a factor in Carlos’ mood.

A set of hands take Cecil by the shoulders and the Sheriff, garish in the room’s illumination, says, “We’ll let you think and then we can come back if you call.”

 

“I like the pink,” Carlos responds.

 

The Sheriff beams.

 

Cecil is pulled from the room by a gracious embrace. He expects Carlos to stand up and have them wait, but the scientist is sprawling onto his cot with no further revelations.

 

Once the door shuts, the Sheriff dusts his gloved hands. “Whew. Well, there was no crying or anything. That’s good! I didn’t know if he would try to kill you or not, Mr. Palmer. You do sort of look like your double. He likes the dress because he needs to know that we aren’t with StrexCorp. Our uniforms were purchased with their funding, but you know...the comfort of our citizens and stuff. We’ll add more electricity for Carlos’ next session. He didn’t even notice how everything repeated itself.”

 

“Wait…” Cecil turns, looking up and down the Sheriff as if the outfit alone could force the days to realign. “Was that set up? I thought... _deja vu_...but, what day is this?!”

 

The Sheriff pats Cecil’s shoulder. “Don’t try to think about it too hard. I suggest a stiff drink. You might be so out of order you can’t see it, but Carlos _is_ improving. With each session, he regains his name faster. He struggles less with telling you and Kevin apart. We don’t need to prompt him as much, and he is starting to evade questions instead of breaking down and shouting colours. We’re still trying to see if he’s outsmarting us, which is possible. We still don’t know what Kevin asked of him, but I personally think he’s genuine. Tomorrow, we’ll see if we can release him into your care again.”

 

“I...already?”

 

“It’s been almost...you know, nevermind how many days it has been, Mr. Palmer. I’m running out of gowns and I don’t want to start wearing the same ones twice. Then everyone will know of how few dresses I own.”

 

Cecil looks to where the door should be, but the entrance has been replaced by empty corkboard. He isn’t sure what the Sheriff is promising, be it an end to this nightmare or another chance for Cecil to fail Carlos.

 

A silk finger pokes at the radio personality’s cheek. “Your line is ‘neat!’”

 

“I still don’t know how I got here, or what day it is,” Cecil says weakly.

 

“It’s the thirty-second. And we appreciate you dropping that box off, whenever you did it. Those things did wonders for Carlos.”

 

Cecil nods, confused and yet grasping on something stable and terrifying and good. Carlos is coming home _tomorrow_.

  
They say he is almost _fine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few hours early! With the holidays and a week before a trip, I don't trust my spare time anymore.
> 
> On that mention of a trip...no promises on updates before January 12th or 13th. That's a long time and I am _very_ sorry. I have lots to do before I leave and where I'm going there'll be no access to computers. I'm desperately trying to get chapter sixteen out for  Fortune Favours III before I go.
> 
> I really need this trip. I really, really, _really_ need this trip. I'm taking a notebook and all of my ideas and I'm going to finish many of them. I'll make up this hiatus by hopefully piling the chapter uploads one after another when I get back. 
> 
> On another note, if anyone wants to **[Tumblr message me an address for postcards](http://dangersocks.tumblr.com/)**...I'm certain a character or two might feel up to writing to you. ;) Want dirty mail? Want something sad? Want a happy Earl abroad? You deserve all of these. I leave January 3rd.


	10. Chapter 10

Cecil carries through another show. Then at home, he cleans the house, rearranging objects with the instructions from a pamphlet the Sheriff gives him.

 

 _How to Make Things Less Intimidating in Your House so You Think You Are Safe When You Don’t Know Any Better_ scrolls a marquee of digital letters across the cardstock. The Sheriff has helpfully added a note in pen to the item. The: ‘ _Never hit the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home, pls & thx_’ jumbles into the corner of the pamphlet.

 

Cecil leaves pieces of Carlos’ experiments in accessible places. He dresses in his fuzziest pants and as he leaves to pick up Carlos, he brings a fresh labcoat. The Sheriff had recommended that Cecil wait until the end of Carlos’ final session.

 

The staff ignore the radio host when he arrives. He hesitatingly shows himself to the room with the cot. He finds Carlos seated, bandaged, and frowning at a menu when he knocks on the open door.

 

Without glancing up, Carlos comments, “They give you options of ice cream but they’re all the same flavour.”

 

“We can stop for flavoured ice cream, I mean, if they release you today. Maybe...maybe if you want…?”

 

Carlos tosses Cecil a look. “Sorry, do I... _oh!_ ”

 

Cecil chews his lip, holding the coat out like a lifeline.

 

“Oh, wait. Yes. We know each other. Yes,” Carlos announces. His face pinches as if the unordered ice cream is already freezing his brain. “Sorry. I’m _so sorry._ I just…”

 

“No, it’s…” Cecil rushes forward, stopping short of contact but grateful for the closeness. He flusters and flounders, excited and terrified. Any minute now and Carlos will be himself again. Or, Cecil’s hopes will be dashed once more. “I understand. Don’t apologize. Carlos…”

 

“We’re together,” continues the scientist in a rush. “You and I...because something bad happened and I called you. No...yes. _No_.”

 

“Yes,” Cecil states. “That happened. A while ago, but...yes. Don’t think too hard. It’ll come back. Can I touch you? Can you stand?”

 

Carlos forgoes the offered hand, encircling Cecil’s arm instead as he pulls himself up. He braces heavily against Cecil. “I feel so…”

 

“I know,” assures Cecil. “We’ll go home. You can have a bath, or sit and watch television. Or nothing. Or whatever you want. I’ll answer your questions. I’ll stay out of your way.”

 

“This is my coat?” Carlos asks. “Do I own other lab coats?” The thought seems to impress him.

 

Cecil nods. One of the “experts” hovers suddenly in the door and if it tries to bar Cecil from taking Carlos home, the radio host will pick up his boyfriend and somehow kick and bite his way to the open streets of Night Vale. The intention is enough to cause the figure to shuffle back.

 

“I missed science,” Carlos murmurs fondly. “I missed you,” he adds as an afterthought. Cecil understands. The affection will settle like dust after being disturbed. It is enough to know that Carlos is _trying_ to fill the role of a significant other.

 

“I know. It’s fine. I promise.” They inch out of the room and into the hallway.

 

“I missed Earl, too,” Carlos finishes. “Is he here?”

 

They stop.

 

\--

 

The “experts” huddle around the corner. Cecil settles Carlos into a chair in the waiting room and tries to think of what to say.

 

“Earl...isn’t here.”

 

“The tent?” Carlos asks. “A ceremony --”

 

Before Cecil can correct the other, Carlos’ face fixates on a point. It pales. Whatever the other is thinking, it is something deep and jarring.

 

He takes a knee and pulls at Carlos’ hands, which are coming to cover his face. “Shhh, no no no,” he repeats. “That’s a long time ago, too.”

 

Carlos shakes his head. “It’s soon.”

 

Rubbing his thumbs along the backs of Carlos’ wrists, Cecil says, “You and I were kidnapped by some very bad people, and Earl…”

 

“Has a ceremony.”

 

Cecil glances at where the “experts” are gathered, bubbling just within sight from the hall. Several shrug, just as confused.

 

“Carlos, please. We don’t understand.”

 

“Clover!”

 

Cecil rocks back on his heels, glancing up at the deeply conflicted expression trying not to meet his gaze. That word is a safe word, but it isn’t Carlos’.

 

It’s Earl’s.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Carlos swallows. “Sorry. I’m...I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Cecil. Don’t hurt me please.”

 

Cecil releases the wrist as if burned. “I wouldn’t. Carlos, it’s...I _wouldn’t_. Do you think I would?”

 

Sniffing, Carlos shakes his head. “No, I remember. You’re not like that. Can we go home? Do I have to stay here?”

 

“Do you want to go home?” Cecil whispers.

 

Carlos nods.

 

“You can tell me if you change your mind. _Anytime_. You can tell me anything you want, and it’s safe, okay?”

 

Carlos considers, finally taking Cecil’s hands and pulling himself into an awkward hug. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he laments.

 

“Nothing, Carlos. You’re doing good. You’ll be yourself soon.”

 

\--

 

The drive home is silent. Carlos lets Cecil buckle him in and he tightly holds the strap across his chest. Cecil has been utilizing Earl’s car because it reminds him of the Scout. There are loose patches tucked into corners, and cassette tapes that have the bands the two used to listen to in high school.

 

It also has the best frame for driving into houses and Cecil still fantasizes about barreling through Kevin’s front door.

 

If Carlos recovers, they can do that together.

 

“I don’t like this car,” Carlos murmurs as Cecil pulls slowly into the driveway.

 

The statement catches the radio host off guard. He kills the engine and as the vehicle settles into a series of ticks, Cecil asks, “Why?”

 

Carlos shrugs.

 

The problem with offering is boyfriend silence and space means that Cecil can’t ask if Carlos is remembering the Scout because of the car. He could be trying to repress the horrors of Earl’s present whereabouts to escape the guilt. Or, Carlos feels as wretched as Cecil feels. They _are_ responsible in _some_ way for the circumstances that allowed this -- some weakness of theirs took Earl away. Some failure.

 

Cecil wants to assure Carlos that he is neither thing, acutely aware of how he should be telling himself the same.

 

He _can’t._

 

He doesn’t blame Carlos. He isn’t capable of it. But Cecil is at fault, and he is the one who knows better. He was the one who gave Kevin something to work with through his attachment to the scientist. He hadn’t prepared Carlos enough for such possibilities, and he didn’t chase Carlos off when the other had merely been but an interloper in Night Vale. That would have saved Carlos from all of this suffering.

 

 _Foolish Cecil_ , he thinks. He is selfish for wanting to use Carlos after using him so much already. He still wants to ask Carlos to try to come up with a way around the impossible to bring back Earl. He is doing this for himself and he hates himself for it. He expects Carlos, in his recovery, to come to feel the same. To hate Cecil.

 

He really is going to lose them both.

 

The feeling falls on the radio host like a sudden downpour, and then, just as quickly, it passes. Cecil sucks in a breath, noting an envelope sticking out of his mailbox.

 

A bill, likely for the unwanted revelation. ‘Cancerous Guilt’ from the Feelings Delivery service, Cecil glumly guesses.

 

He disentangles himself from his seat in order to help out a worn out Carlos. The lawn greets the scientist with a rousing burst of “Werewolves of London.” The other flutters a superficial smile at the mismatched grasses.

 

This is not the homecoming Cecil had hoped for.

 

The house is spotless when they come in. The Faceless Old Woman has even made the rooms smell like the house had in better times, though the burnt nutmeg and pine cleaner mingling behind the scent is not exactly comforting reminders of when one of the house’s occupants used to make tiramisu for endless days.

 

If Carlos notices, he does not say. Instead, he collapses onto the sofa, limbless. “I’m tired.”

 

“There’s a room upstairs. You usually sleep there.”

 

Closing his eyes, Carlos considers. “If we sleep here, we’ll know when Earl is back from his trip and we...”

 

Cecil watches his companion stiffen. Then frown. “Carlos…”

 

“Nevermind,” the other dismisses. “I...forget I said anything.”

 

“Carlos.”

 

Hugging his spare coat to his chest, Carlos shakes his head.

 

“If you’re making these slips, we need to acknowledge them,” Cecil gently offers.

 

A pair of eyes open, narrow and challenging. “We didn’t stop for ice cream. You said we could.”

 

Cecil recognizes the topic change as a trademark of re-education. Ice cream is a triggered response to unpleasant stimuli, like a safe word but less sacred. Cecil wishes he had grabbed the invoice from the mailbox, ready to wring something between his hands because he wishes to ignore the topic change.

 

“You were tired. We could go for ice cream after, or would you prefer it now?”

 

“Now. It’s...we go to the White Sand Ice Cream Shop after your re-education. I just…you said I should say what I want.”

 

“It’ll be no problem,” assures Cecil. “You can sleep in the car if you want to.”

 

“Can we walk? Or, I don’t remember. Do we have other cars?”

 

Cecil helps Carlos up, holding onto his patience just as tightly. “We have other cars.”

 

\--

 

Cecil pulls his car out of the garage, wiping away oversized spider-webs from where they coat the windows. It takes him longer than he first estimates and he is surprised to find Carlos still cognitive when Cecil fetches him.

 

“We’re in your car,” Carlos murmurs, buckling himself into the dusty interior.

 

“Sorry about the mess,” Cecil apologizes, eyeing the gas level in hopes that it has more than it claims.

 

“And you’re in your date-night pants.”

 

A set of fingers touches the side of Cecil’s leg, careful to snag only the tufts of fur that strays away from Cecil’s thigh. It is a test of personal boundaries, Carlos not yet willing to commit to more personal spaces.

 

“Do you remember those early dates?” Cecil asks.

 

“Parts of them,” Carlos admits. “They’re...safe. I go there if I want to be happy.”

 

Cecil holds onto the confession. “Me too, Carlos.”

 

\--

 

The White Sand Ice Cream Shop stands as a pale imitation of its former glory after StrexCorp’s first invasion. Cecil likes supporting the new owners, who try very hard to dress and act like the previous owners, Lucy and Hanna Gutierrez. The two look nothing like the couple. The pair refuse to smile with their mouths on principle, but their eyes brighten and their grimaces dimple when they see Cecil, with Carlos carefully entangling his arm.

 

“The usual?” Hanna asks, her deep voice bouncing off of the glass display.

 

Cecil nudges Carlos who is already overwhelmed by the flavour options. Perhaps styrofoam had been a good choice to fill a menu with, after all. He eventually says, “One chocolate. A poppy and black olives. And a tiger-tiger, please.”

 

Hanna jumps to work.

 

Cecil frowns. “Carlos…”

 

“Did you want something different?” the scientist asks. “I was certain I got it right.”

 

“You ordered three,” Cecil comments. “Tiger-tiger is what Earl usually gets.”

 

Carlos goes rigid beside his boyfriend and Lucy holds up three cones.

 

“Everything alright?” she probes. With ice cream being a common refuge for those fresh from re-education, Carlos’ stare is not so unusual for her.

 

“Everything is fine,” Cecil answers. “I can eat Earl’s.”

 

“They’re on the house,” Hanna offers, waving them out the door with her large, tattooed arms.

 

Carlos stares down at his chocolate cone as the desert heat welcomes back the two of them. “We always order three...”

 

“There’s usually three of us,” Cecil grants.

 

“Forget I mentioned it,” Carlos mumbles, scrutinizing the foundation of his scoop as it starts to slide over the crisp lip of its holder. “I don’t know why I did.”

 

“Because it’s worth examining?” Cecil attempts.

 

“I’m tired. Can we go home?”

 

Cecil sucks at a pooling gob of orange and black, letting his own favourite slide over his fingers so that Earl’s doesn’t go to waste. “Once my hands are free.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back from Mexico with a backlog of paper-story to transmit to electronics. It should go much quicker now. The craptop has been retired. I'm very excited to be working with technology that is from this decade. 
> 
> The future is here. It is no longer flinching first.
> 
> (Thank you for putting up with me and my delays.)


	11. Chapter 11

Both men are sticky when they pull into the garage. They are irritable -- Carlos from lack of rest and questionable sanity; Cecil from trying to balance his optimism with his doubts. It does not help the radio host to note how they have both returned to the house gummy and unkempt before, but those arrivals had followed happier departures, and there used to be a Scout waiting to clean them up (who would end up even more dishevelled.)

 

Cecil turns on the sink and grabs dish-soap. Carlos stands wearily in the doorway, looking down at the kitchen table.

 

Cecil can imagine Carlos slowly counting the chairs. One...two…

 

The scientist’s lined, heavy eyes fall on the place where Earl would usually sit.

 

“So...what would you like to do now?” Cecil prompts. It is through his experiences as a voice that helps him keep his tone light. “You could have a nap.”

 

“I’m not a child, Cecil,” Carlos deadpans, tearing his eyes away from the chair in the corner. “I’ll be in my lab.”

 

“Oh...um, okay.”

 

Carlos fidgets, but makes no move to vacate the doorway.

 

“Do you remember where it is?”

 

“Yes,” snaps the other. A moment later, he sighs. “Down...downstairs?”

 

Cecil nods, letting his attention stay on the very difficult task of shutting off the warm, running water.

 

“I’m sorry, Cecil. I don’t know why I’m…”

 

The radio host shifts so Carlos can take a place next to him at the sink. “We’re all stressed,” Cecil addresses.

 

“I’ll get over it by getting back to what I normally do, whatever that is, well…”

 

Cecil picks up a dishtowel and Carlos departs, following his memory to where it leads him to his lab next to the…

 

The dishtowel is flung aside as Cecil calls out his partner’s name in warning. He hurries to catch up and finds Carlos standing at the bottom of the stairwell with his finger on the light switch.

 

“That is…” starts Cecil, mentally kicking himself for not having the foresight to prepare for this, “...was, that was our playroom.”

 

“Yes,” Carlos murmurs flatly. There is little in the response for Cecil to interpret.

 

“I...I’ve been meaning to take it apart. Only, a lot of the fixtures are set into the foundation and I haven’t had the...um, wherewithal to...you know…by myself...”

 

Carlos nods, his face particularly guarded. “I see. Well…”

 

He turns away from the wider room and opens his laboratory’s door. Cecil drags a hand through his hair and considers following. The click of the latch challenges that notion, and Cecil hovers by the lightswitch, uncertain.

 

Carlos won’t be alone in there. It is impossible to be alone in any room. Still, Cecil taps lightly at the wood and says, “I’ll just be out here if you need anything.”

 

He gets no answer. He can hear something being moved -- glass and metal. The rustle of paper. He decides to move things himself, dragging the mattress to the floor just beyond the door. With the stale blankets, Cecil burrows in.

 

\--

 

He must have slept. The birds outside the house have joined with the vocals from the lawn. Even from the bottom of the stairs, Cecil can hear them. It is morning. He stretches, wondering if he had expected Carlos to wake him, or join him in the night.

 

“Carlos?” he mumbles, starting to wonder if he had dreamed the prior day. The thought should make him panic. Oh, but if he has the chance to redo the experience, he would. And he’ll get it _right_ this time. Carlos will come home today and they’ll talk about Ea --

 

“He’s in the lab,” the Faceless Old Woman breathes into the shell of Cecil’s ear. He scrambles away from the sudden voice and the context she brings. The blanket is dragged defensively over his torso even though it needs no protective covering. His shirt from the day prior is rumpled and decorated with ice cream stains.

 

“He was working all night?” Cecil asks.

 

“He’s asleep on the other side of the door. Spent a long time debating whether he should open it or not.”

 

Cecil picks himself up, tapping at the barrier before he gently tries to enter. He feels a weight settled on the other side, and as he shifts the door open as far as Carlos’ body will let him, the scientist hums.

 

“Hey,” whispers Cecil, relieved at confirming his perfect, sleeping scientist. Carlos is home, and safe now. “You should sleep in a bed. I’m just coming in, careful…”

 

Carlos looks peaceful, in no hurry to rouse. He rolls to a wall where the door no longer prods at him. Cecil delicately slips into the dark lab and adjusts his height so that he can scoop up the other. Carlos is heavy, but Cecil has no trouble accounting for the mass. With Carlos, he never needs to.

 

He conveys Carlos up the stairs and as he starts to ascend to the second level, Carlos shifts and softly mumbles, “You’ve carried me before.”

 

Cecil sees a small smile nuzzled into his chest. He smiles too.

 

\--

 

Carlos is tucked into bed and sleeps most of the day. Cecil puts on new clothes and goes down to assess the things needed to disassemble the playroom structures. He wishes he had Earl’s support. Cecil is the least technical of his boyfriends, and now that Carlos is recovering, soon they can get the Scout back.

 

He gets very little done in the basement. Richard visits, volunteering his free time to restoring the damaged gardens and lawns from the recent disasters. Cecil spends a large part of his afternoon trying to coax Khoshekh down from the assailed intern’s gnarled, branchy hair.

 

Cecil checks up on Carlos before he leaves for his show and he finds the other rummaging through the dresser drawers.

 

“I’m not sure which one has _my_ clothes,” Carlos states. He looks upset.

 

“They change,” Cecil soothes. “The Faceless Old Woman -- do you remember her? -- she categorizes things. At random and usually once you’re used to a system, but...well…”

 

“This is a strange place,” Carlos sighs.

 

“You used to love that,” reminds Cecil. “If something didn’t make sense, you’d poke at it.”

 

Nibbling his lip, Carlos nods. “For science…”

 

“Yes,” agrees Cecil. “I’ll ask the Faceless Old Woman to put some clothes where you can find them. Then, I have to go do my show, but you can listen if you want. And while I’m gone, if you need anything, most of the shadows can help you.”

 

“Can I listen to your show in my lab?”

 

“You built a radio down there just for that. I’ll help you find it!”

 

\--

 

For the first time since he had returned, Cecil lets himself get personal on his show. He talks about the value of sticking things out and the investment of prolonging a revenge. Through his studio window, he sees Maureen drop her face into her palms and that usually is a sign that the segment is going well.

 

He thinks...

 

Carlos is back to himself, and while the previous day had been rough, things are looking better now. Carlos is taking initiative with his lab work. Soon, they’ll be able to assess the weaknesses in StrexCorp. A rescue will follow, and finally a happy ending...

 

Cecil drives home daydreaming about that day.

 

He finds the house dark as he pulls in. The door is locked. Cecil lets himself in. “Hello?”

 

“He’s in the lab,” Cecil hears. If the Faceless Old Woman were a man with a Svitz accent, that is who speaks.

 

“Hard at work?” asks the host.

 

“Nnnnnno,” drawls the...Faceless Old Man from Svitz? “Not since your show, he hasn’t been.”

 

“Not since my…” Cecil trails off, deciding to investigate directly. He does not need to travel far. The scientist is sitting on the stairs, back against the wall with his feet splayed against the opposite side.

 

“Carlos?”

 

Cecil’s boyfriend remains unmoved.

 

“You heard the show?”

 

“Yeah,” comes a reluctant answer. “It’s just...I don’t know…”

 

“What bothered you?” Cecil asks, crouching on a step above the scientist. “Was it the part about the mountains?”

 

“Can I just...sit on the stairs in peace?”

 

Cecil hugs his knees, shrugging. “If that’s what you want?”

 

Carlos shrugs, too. He turns his eyes at the dark playroom.

 

“Did you shower? That might help you feel better.”

 

“...no.”

 

“Did you eat? I left a salad in the fridge.”

 

“I wasn’t hungry.”

 

“Oh,” Cecil notes. “Are you hungry now?”

 

Carlos huffs.

 

“How about I start a bath and you can sit in the warm water and that will be better than being alone on these stairs. And when you’re done, I’ll have something made.”

 

“You don’t have to take care of me,” mutters Carlos.

 

“I know you’re self-reliant, but I _want_ to take care of you,” Cecil expresses. “It’s something that I like to do.”

 

“Because I’ll get better faster?” Carlos asks, an edge to the question.

 

“You’ll get better at your own speed,” Cecil assures.

 

“And you’ll wait that long?”

 

“Do you think I won’t?” Cecil quests, laying a hand carefully against Carlos’ shin.

 

Carlos pulls away, shifting so his legs descend the final few steps. “When I’m unable to help you, or if I’m bad…”

 

Cecil frowns, scooting closer while trying not to crowd. “You’re _not_ bad, Carlos.”

 

“Nothing makes sense anymore.” It comes across as an accusation.

 

Cecil clutches the edge of the stair he sits upon to keep from grasping at Carlos. “I...don’t know if you’re referring to Night Vale. Or life. Or what happened to us…”

 

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Carlos snaps.

 

“You didn’t,” agrees Cecil.

 

“But things happened.”

 

Cecil swallows. “Yes...they did. I was with you. And we did everything we had to.”

 

Carlos shakes his head. “You don’t know what I did.”

 

“Do you want to tell me?”

 

“Clover,” Carlos shudders. It is Earl’s safeword again, which makes no sense _either_.

 

“Okay, later. We don’t have to bring it up now.”

 

“I’m _not_ going back to...to that place,” Carlos warns through a hiccup. “Even if I’m bad, you can’t send me back to _him_.”

 

“No one is asking you to go back,” Cecil keens. “That is the _last_ thing I want, Carlos. You’re not bad. You were _never_ bad.”

 

“I can’t,” Carlos chokes. “I can’t be what you need.”

 

“It’ll come to you,” Cecil presses, hesitatingly soothing Carlos’ back as the man doubles over.

 

“It _can’t_ come back to me,” Carlos growls. “Because _then_ I’m bad!”

 

“But you’re good.”

 

“You sound like... _him_...when you say that,” seethes the other. "When I do what you...he wants..."

 

Cecil falters. “Then...then don't. Just...be more than good. Be  _Carlos_. You _are_ Carlos the Scientist. And when things don’t make sense, you’re the one we want taking care of it.”

 

The other man laughs, bitter. “I can’t even take care of myself. I don’t know what I want.”

 

“Then...then we take little steps. Small things that we can control. That _you_ can. Hot or cold water in the bath? Would you prefer a shower instead?”

 

“A bath,” Carlos huffs.

 

“That’s one decision down. Pretty easy, huh?”

 

Carlos turns, face stony and eyes wet. “I guess. Look, Cecil...I want to be safe, and I want everyone safe. And I’m glad we’re both here. I just...listening to your show, I think...I think _this_ should be enough. I think I want _right now_ to be enough.”

 

Cecil deflates. “You want to leave Earl there?”

 

“See,” Carlos ducks his head. “Because I’m bad.”

 

There’s a lump building in Cecil’s throat. He speaks around it. “Maybe it’s too early to make decisions. But you aren’t going to have to go back, and we can discuss this later. Maybe consult with the Sheriff or the Erikas, or you can try to layout what you remember of the house.”

 

Carlos hunches in on himself. “I’d actually prefer to have another session and forget the whole thing.”

 

“Can we sleep on it?” Cecil pleads.

 

“I don’t want to sleep in the playroom.”

 

“The bedroom is for you. Nobody has to sleep in the playroom.”

 

Carlos nods. “I’d...like a bath please. Warm water. And...and the salad.”

 

“Anything,” Cecil says, not so certain that he wants that promise to encompass _all_ that Carlos may soon ask.

 

\--

 

Once he’s fed Carlos and put him to bed, Cecil retreats to the playroom. The scientist had fallen asleep quickly and Cecil only intends to be gone for an hour or two.

 

In a video, Earl grins crookedly at the camera and makes fun of Cecil’s Elf Prince character by wrapping a red towel around himself and putting a colander on his head. The Cecil in the video punishes Earl for the insolence. It had been a very good scenario, with Carlos fighting off a cold and happy to handle the camera for his lovers.

 

Cecil sleeps uneasily beside Carlos, afraid to curl close in case he wake the other. The first thing Carlos asks is if Cecil can find out when another re-education is available. He claims he had not slept well, and Cecil murmurs that he’ll ask the Sheriff before he does his show.

 

Carlos returns to the lab and Cecil prepares breakfast. He notices that there are only two chairs in the kitchen.

 

“I moved...that seat,” Carlos explains as he catches Cecil’s returning glances to the open corner. He drags his fork across his plate, rougher than he needs to. “I’d rather you didn’t bring it up.”

  
“Neat,” Cecil glumly intones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Two steps forward, three sideways and six back." Wise words from a wise man -- now applied to the context of how I'm feeling about my progress. Expect another chapter tomorrow if I can avoid watching _Orgasmo_ with friends. 
> 
> That movie is a classic...but I also want to get this finished. 
> 
> I'm really enjoying the feedback and I'm excited to get more of Night Vale's best in the spotlight. Jathis and I love chatting about these guys. Please don't feel intimidated or afraid to come yell at us. We enjoy shouting matches and new friends.


	12. Chapter 12

Cecil does his show, wondering if Carlos is listening. He sets extra time for Corrections. He re-articulates what he had personalized on his previous show, making an effort to focus on how every person is different and needs time that cannot be measured against the expectations of others. A whole month can feel like an infinite and agonizing lifetime. This Cecil knows. A smaller timeline, say six hours, can seem broken as well. Scientists study the perception of time, and should never be rushed. The knowledge they keep should be tampered with carefully.

 

Cecil is proud of the message and even gets a thumbs up from Maureen. Richard likes it, but Richard likes everything. Cecil drives home with a handful of the intern’s leaves. Something that he can give to Carlos -- for study or as therapy. Carlos is in bed though, and a note dangling from a spider informs Cecil that the scientist remembered to eat.

 

“Good,” Cecil tells the creature before it is violently massacred by his cat.

 

Without waking him, Cecil is unable to ask for explicit permission to lie with Carlos tonight. He retires to the basement.

 

_“It’s weird,” Earl confesses. “But don’t untie me just yet.”_

_“It’s not weird,” coos a different Cecil from a different time. “I think you’re gorgeous like this. All spent and no where to go.”_

_Earl hums, the camera’s contrast unable to properly admire his blush._

_“Oh,” straightens the leather-clad Master. “While you’re like that, I should take the recorder and go over these knots. Carlos wanted to learn them. Would you be okay with that?”_

_Earl glances up from where he’s held down. “I’m fine with that. Actually, if he wants to get more hands on you could invite him…”_

_“He’s busy,” Cecil explains, picking up the camera. “And shy. But maybe when he sees how good you look at my mercy, and starts thinking of how good you’d look under his…”_

_Earl whines, flushing deeper and glancing away._

_“Now, now,” his observer scolds. “Imagine a collar that makes you look at the camera as I get those sounds out of you…”_

_“Masters!” swears Earls._

_“Am I still your Master?” the camera’s operator asks. “Can I order you to look at me as I talk about that restrained, perfect body?”_

_Earl shifts to peer up, shivering. “Olive, Sir.”_

_“And you know Carlos is going to see this, right?”_

_“Olive.”_

 

\--

 

Cecil wakes when there is a glassy tapping. He cracks an eyelid to see the frozen fuzz of the television. In the screen, he is lying with Earl, one leg possessively curling around the Scout who still has rope criss-crossing his torso and arms snagged by sheets. Both look asleep. There is a third figure in the room with them.

 

A man in a grey-scale suit who is vaguely familiar is ignoring the lovers. He taps at the television again.

 

Cecil stares, trying to sit up.

 

Irritated, the man plants a paper note against the lens of the camera. _‘Carlos re-education - resumes 3:22 tomorrow'._

 

“Um, thanks?” Cecil strains, fending off a yawn and failing. “Hey, can you...wake them and tell them about StrexCorp? Can you warn...”

 

The stranger does not answer. Behind the notice that obscures the room, the figure is fading away.

 

Cecil remains watching the sleeping, oblivious lovers for a long time, wondering if a message _could_ have been possible. It’s a question he would ask of his scientist in any other circumstance.

 

Now his scientist does not _want_ to know.

\--

 

“Are you sure you want to go?” Cecil asks, drumming his fingers on the table.

 

“It’s mandatory,” Carlos answers. It sounds like an adamant affirmative, to Cecil. “I have a favour to ask, though.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Carlos shrugs. “I want them to make a few things go away. I wrote a list. Could you have them follow it?”

 

Cecil stares at his fingers. “Can I see the list?”

 

Carlos hesitates, before shaking his head. “I’d rather not.”

 

“Then how will I know they do it?”

 

Carlos stalls, an egg halfway to his mouth. “Would they lie?”

 

“They might,” Cecil suggests, not entirely against the possibility himself. “If they suspect that lying protects you, or this town, or it happens to be Wednesday.”

 

“Is it Wednesday?” asks the other. “I thought Mondays were when lies…”

 

Carlos trails off, his body language uncomfortable. The remainders of his egg are now sprouting small tentacles. This display is not enough to draw Carlos’ attention back.

 

“Honestly, I don’t know,” concedes the host. “I lost some time the other day. I’m not sure if it is going to catch up, or when. My nights have been strange, too.”

 

“You didn’t spend the night with me,” Carlos murmurs.

 

“I don’t want to invade your space,” Cecil explains. “I didn’t have permission and I understand how valuable space is after what we went through. If you would like for me to…”

 

“I would,” Carlos nods. “It helps. I remember your voice if I start hearing…well, other things.”

 

“What do you hear?”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Carlos answers, taking his fork and stabbing the breakfast creature. “If we go to re-education and you talk to them, it won’t be a problem anymore.”

 

Cecil watches his boyfriend separate the limbs from the egg. The gesture is careless and creates a mess. A part of Cecil wants to attribute a callousness to his boyfriend. He wants to ask where Earl’s chair is, and tell Carlos that Cecil stays up late watching videos of the Scout because he _cannot_ forget.

 

“Will you help me talk to them?”

 

The question is broached so quietly that Cecil looks up, surprised at the concern Carlos wears.

 

The list -- Carlos’ secrets -- they must have Earl’s name on it. And still, under the desperate gaze of his boyfriend, Cecil finds himself nodding.

 

“Anything you need…”

 

\--

 

Cecil listens to Carlos explain his request, never once glimpsing the contents of the list. While it is possible for individuals to make such demands, the Council is not legally required to listen to anything its constituents say. As the Sheriff takes the paper and looks it over under the hovering heads of one of the “experts,” he glances at Cecil and says, “I can’t make any guarantees.”

 

Carlos bristles, so Cecil speaks up, stating, “I’m certain you could guarantee _something_.”

 

“Did you even see this?” the Sheriff asks.

 

Carlos looks ready to rip the note away. His demeanor has changed suddenly, which is not uncommon for those about to undergo a session here. Cecil takes his partner’s hand and squeezes it. “I don’t need to. Carlos knows what he needs in order to be better, and as Night Vale’s most singular and beautiful scientist, I believe that warrants a bit of respect.”

 

The Sheriff rolls the note in his hand as he shifts, uncomfortable. The paper tightens and tightens. So, too, does Carlos’ grip.

 

Finally, the man in the baklava hood sighs. “Very well. I’ll have our guys take it into consideration, _if_ that’s what our favourite scientist _and_ what our Voice wants.”

 

Carlos nods. Cecil bolsters it with an, “Uh huh.”

 

Looking as if he is about to step into a piranha pool -- a possibility as his baklava is only matched by a pair of swim trunks with a badge pinned to them -- the Sheriff turns and leaves the room with Carlos’ request.

 

“Thanks,” Carlos whispers.

 

Cecil clenches the hand he holds, warning, “Carlos, if you’re looking for a quick fix, please know that we are who we are from a lifetime of guilt and grief. And I’m worried that I will lose you.”

 

“You won’t,” Carlos presses. “It’ll be like when we met. When we started dating.”

 

Cecil bumps his head into Carlos’ shoulder, pressing it against his boyfriend as if he could merge them into something inseparable. “You only called me _after_ a tiny town had nearly killed you.”

 

“This isn’t...it’s not the same,” argues Carlos. “Please, I need this. I can’t...I can’t stay if I remember these things. I don’t want to go anywhere.”

 

“What does that mean?” Cecil pleads.

 

The Sheriff pushes the door open an instant later, making Carlos jump. “Room two, Carlos. And Cecil, in my car please.”

 

There is no room for negotiations. Cecil would ask Carlos to at least answer the question, but the scientist is eager to go, already slipping away.

 

\--

 

“Sir?” Cecil asks as he is brought outside. The Sheriff’s vehicle is already running and Cecil dutifully climbs into the back. “You don’t happen to have the note, do you?”

 

The Sheriff scowls, slamming his door. “The ‘experts’ confiscated the note. It was entirely scribbles, Cecil. Not unlike the ones Carlos put on the walls when we were trying to get him back to something familiar. Teeth and smiles, or lines and knots. I really don’t know. I thought we were past all that, but now I don’t know _anything_. The Council seemed to get the meaning, or else they acted as such.”

 

“I promised to back him up,” Cecil murmurs.

 

“I was there,” the Sheriff reminds. “Look, I think a good lie and a lot of manipulation will get you a long way. But I’m not you, even though I repeat your broadcasts to myself in your sweet, smooth voice during the dark parts of the lonely night. Now...because I had to do _you_ a favour, you have to do one for me.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“My bowling team is short a man and we’re playing for the quarter-final championship qualifiers.”

 

“You...need me to bowl? Sir, I haven’t done that in years.”

 

The man at the wheel laughs. “No, no. One of the Erikas is covering, which you never heard me say. I need _you_ to fetch our team drinks while we play. Teddy’s wings are salty and it’s bad luck for me to walk all the way to the bar.”

 

“I’m a glorified water boy?” Cecil incredulously asks.

 

The Sheriff snorts. “I wouldn’t say ‘glorified’...”

 

\--

 

Cecil gnaws on a pretzel, watching the Sheriff’s team decimate a group from Pine Cliffs. It is very difficult for ghosts to roll a tangible object with any accuracy down a sixty foot lane.

 

Teddy comes over to hover by Cecil, dropping a pair of shoes onto the counter. “These used to be yours,” he greets.

 

“You still have the neon laces” Cecil grins. The feeling is odd, though that may be the wistfulness. It could also be the smell of the shoes. “Did you ever wash those since I wore them?”

 

“Name me one bowling alley that washes its shoes,” Teddy argues. “Besides, I have a war to fight.”

 

That much is true. Teddy had been firing holes with his shotgun into the corner repeatedly over the last two hours. Cecil has yet to see anything moving there, but he makes sure to tip well with the Sheriff’s credit card whenever he is made to purchase drinks. Ammo is expensive these days.

 

“Speaking of wars, how is yours?”

 

Cecil glances up, glumly sucking the salt from the stale snacks. “Carlos is in re-education right now. I think he’s trying to forget Earl and...and I think I have to let him. I have been meaning to ask if you could get your militia to help me with a retrieval.”

 

Teddy sucks in a lip and frowns at the floor. “That would leave us dangerously understaffed. It could be Strex’s plan, having us spread too thin. If I give up the border here, we’ll be fighting a two-front war. They were allied, the tiny city and those corporate types.”

 

“I...suppose,” Cecil sighs. “Well, thanks?”

 

“I know you’re feeling antsy,” Teddy consols. “But recall what I told you when you came to me to fix the leg from that thing they loosed in your booth? You were apologetic for taking half a day to get that treated after you spent the time at the clinic with your cat.”

 

“ _Strex_ ,” growls the radio host.

 

“Just so,” agrees the bowling manager. “I told you, as a doctor, that while it wasn’t good for you to risk infection and permanent disability or scarring, you were worried about your pet. And not only is that pet going to be invaluable to you if the tiny army ever takes your house and you aren’t wearing good stomping shoes, but you love that pet. And taking care of it meant not taking care of your leg. But you found time for both in the end. Cecil, you can’t take care of your scientist boyfriend, _and_ at the same time plot a complicated extraction from enemy territory. In the world of doctors, we call this dilemma triage. If too many people are hurt, a single first responder must choose to focus on only one victim. After the first attack, I chose to save your boyfriend. I may have been able to preserve the Tracker if things had been different, but I’ll never know. In the world of bowling, it’s a split. Think of a 7-10. That’s a bad place to be if you want to pick up a spare. You can target one pin or the other. It’s not impossible to win both, but the probability…”

 

Cecil slumps.

 

“You focus on your scientist, Cecil. I’d hate to see my hard work go to waste. And you know what your Earl would want you to do.”

 

“Yeah,” Cecil sighs.

 

“Earl knows you’re one man. And he knows you’d do right by him if you could. The whole town knows this.”

 

A cheer interrupts them, the Sheriff scoring a strike. He waves at Cecil to pick up a round for his officers.

 

“You wanna know why I picked Carlos over the Tracker?”

 

Cecil watches Teddy pour beer into plastic cups. “Why?”

 

“He told me I was deranged, but then that scientist went to a place that I had always been scared to go and he showed me a thing. I’ve been working here, scared of that hole behind lane five for as long as I can remember. Didn’t think science was a thing that could explain a thing, but I was shown wrong. Anyhow, I thought he was brave. If he’s scared now, you just be patient and remind him of who he is. War does a thing to people. Oh, and that Tracker guy...he was _such_ a jerk. Your show showed me that.”

 

Cecil sadly hums as he departs, carrying the order of refreshments to the bowlers.

 

Right now, Carlos is forgetting. Earl is somewhere, enduring something. They both need him. And Cecil needs both.

 

“Take care of Carlos,” Teddy repeats over the clatter of pins. “Earl’s strong enough to wait.”

 

\--

 

The game is complete before Carlos is due out. The Sheriff buys Cecil a drink and they say little beyond comments on the plays. As waterboy, Cecil is required to drive them back to work before he himself is too inebriated to drive. He sits in the waiting room letting the alcohol and pretzels settle, ruminating on what he will do if Carlos does give up on pieces of himself. Carlos may be happier. Should Cecil begrudge him that?

 

“I am bitter,” he mumbles.

 

A slamming door startles Cecil from his reverie. He rises in time for Carlos to brace against the wall. His nose has a tissue stuck out of one nostril. The scientist coughs. “Cecil?”

 

The radio host is surprised at how relieved he is to hear his name. “I’m here. Coming. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

 

“Of course I’m...yes,” nods the other. “Why are we here?”

 

“You wanted to...it’s unimportant. Try not to think. I’m going to subtly borrow the Sheriff's car.”

 

Carlos replaces the wall with Cecil’s arm. “I can walk,” he assures, knees giving.

 

“Careful…”

 

Carlos flinches at the sun, and after they stagger across the parking lot, he gives up on gaining better control of his legs. Cecil scoops him up and Carlos happily clings to Cecil’s neck.

 

“So...in the mood for ice cream?”

 

“Nover,” slurs the other. “Wait. Clover. _No_. Nover.”

 

Cecil cocks his head, trying to catch more of the perplexed look upon Carlos’ face. “Ice cream later?”

 

“Mmmhm,” breathes Carlos.

 

“Do you want to go home?”

 

“Can you tell me about Night Vale?”

 

“Did you forget?” Cecil frowns, juggling the Sheriff's keys around his boyfriend.

 

“I didn’t,” protests Carlos. A whisper. “Just...want to lie down. And I want you to lie...with…”

 

“I can,” Cecil murmurs. “You don’t need a reason.”

 

Carlos grunts as if he will argue, but the effort is too difficult.

 

“I’m always happy talking about Night Vale.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am once again marveling at how badly I plan chapter breaks. Some are long. Some are tiny. My apologies to those who prefer consistency. 
> 
> And if it feels like we're going in circles...recovery is like that. A shout out to anyone who has ever asked themselves "why can't I be better already?!" -- it's difficult to see the progress you've made and are making. Keep going, because you're strong enough and brave enough and worthy enough to see the end through. You're beautiful and deserving. Keep going.
> 
> Two chapters left. I have them on paper in rough draft form. Good ol' ink and ocean-touched notebook. Please know that for the upcoming chapters, I wrote "cock" from a height of 21,000 feet over America. Those'll be up as soon as possible.


	13. Chapter 13

Cecil lies with Carlos in bed, the sun streaming through their blinds and making their legs glow. The limbs entwine as much as human limbs can. Cecil plays with his boyfriend’s hair and scratches his scalp. Carlos rests his head on the radio host’s chest, hearing the vibrations of the words that describe the wonderful town they live in.

 

Cecil is a good boyfriend. He avoids mentions of StrexCorp’s recent involvements. He does not describe the red-headed Scoutmaster. Cecil is a good boyfriend.

 

He feels bad about it.

 

Carlos sighs and curls closer, grinning at mentions of dark messages scrawled onto postal walls and houses that don’t really exist. Eventually the grin turns slack. A body becomes limp, and Cecil’s words are interrupted by soft snores.

 

The radio host pauses, certain he could continue with the stories. He could even slip in references to what he has omitted. He could celebrate the bravery of Earl Harlan. He could remind Carlos of the reasons to hate who Cecil hates. But is that fair?

 

Carlos’ dark fingers unlatch from Cecil’s shirt. The man looks peaceful and content. He had worked to create this for himself. Carlos only wants to be happy.

 

Cecil should accept that. He glances at the colours just beyond the window, certain it is not yet late. He carefully slips free of his lover and plants his feet on the carpet. By lifting up the edge of the bedsheets, he whispers, “I’m going downstairs. Could you alert me if Carlos wakes?”

 

A sigh filters out from under the bed. Whatever is there sounds irritated at the interruption. Cecil catches a glow of blue light reflecting from the sheets. “Yeah, why not?” assents the stranger, getting back to quietly mashing buttons on a game or something.

 

Cecil leaves Carlos, creeping to the basement with steps fueled by a heavy heart. He sets up the mattress and the television in the dark, not wanting to see the apparatus’ of their playroom. He picks a DVD from the pile and pushes it in without knowing the contents.

 

“Oh,” he breathes, instantly recognizing the picture that displays.

 

_“Well now, um...you’ve met!” Cecil’s voice is bodiless and mingling with the clatter of the video camera being secured to the tripod._

_In front is Carlos in his best labcoat. It is very white, and the scientist is not disturbed by the shaking of the camera. Like earthquakes that he doesn’t notice, he crosses his arms and blades himself. He doesn’t know that he’s displaying insecurity, but Cecil does._

_Likely Earl does, too. He stands across from Carlos in a Spider Wolves t-shirt and with his own arms planted firmly in jean pockets. They are done with shaking hands. They are both far too formal._

_“Uh, yes,” Earl states, confirming Cecil’s observation. “Carlos and I have talked a few times.”_

_“Town meetings,” agrees the scientist._

_“And you dropped in to explain that thing to my boys.”_

_A nod. “Yes, that thing. That was a good thing.”_

_“It was very helpful.”_

_“Oh? Good.”_

_“Yes.”_

_Cecil’s voice filters in from behind. “I thought we’d just do an ice breaker tonight. Maybe discuss our expectations?”_

_“Communication is important,” nods Earl, clearing his throat and standing a little more at attention. He remains guarded._

_“Agreed,” Carlos peeps. He has yet to meet Earl’s eyes. “My um, experience isn’t...extensive. But I specialize in observing. I mean...I’m okay with just being quietly unnoticed for the first...if it works, um...and if you’re okay with that, Earl.”_

_The ginger bobs his head, doing his best to repress the start of an unexpected blush. “I’m okay with that. I know Cecil has been sharing some of our recordings with you. From...the sessions. And...well…it won’t be so different if…”_

_He stops when Cecil clears his throat suddenly. He may have raised a hand. From behind the camera, Cecil speaks so quietly that a viewer would need to strain to hear the words. “Earl, what do you call me when we’re in the room?”_

_The Scout stiffens. His eyes snap up at a point over the camera’s eye and Cecil does not need to slow the scene to catch every moment of the transformation. Earl moves from being politely professional and quiet, to perplexed at the statement, to realization and minor horror at having behaved inappropriately. His face drains as his ears start to colour. His shoulders drop._

_“Master.”_

_Earl pays no mind now to Carlos. His attention is fully on Cecil. His shoulders tense and the ginger shrinks without seeming to move._

_Carlos, though, stays true to his self-description: observer. He forgets his awkwardness as he stares at the transformation happening in front of him. Fascination is overriding his sense of prudence._

_Cecil must be grinning like a predator. He simply says, “Kneel.”_

_Earl collapses. The camera angle is forgotten, and most of the Scout falls out of range. The scientist becomes the focus as he leans into the centre of the frame. He is transfixed._

_“Now, Slut. Tell the perfect Carlos about your safewords.”_

_Only a part of Earl’s expressions are caught on camera, but Cecil can remember how this went. Earl wears a look of genuine appreciation and respect. He surrenders all of the responsibility he carries from his role of Scoutmaster. He embraces his submissive side has he turns to obey, telling Carlos’ knees in a murmur, “‘Olive’ is...permission to continue. ‘Clover’ is the word to stop. And finally, ‘chartreuse’ is the word to pause things for clarification or assistance.”_

_“And who is in control?” Cecil purrs._

_Earl lifts his chin, peering up at his Master. “I am, Sir.”_

_“And you like if Carlos watches?”_

_Earl hesitates, before reddening. “Yes, Sir.”_

_“Colour?”_

_“Olive,” breathes the Scout, with complete conviction._

_“Good,” Cecil praises. “That’s a great ice breaker. Earl, you can stand again.”_

_The ginger blinks his red and black eyes, not so quick to rise in case his Master changes his mind._

_“Carlos?” asks their host._

_The scientist shifts. “That...well, that was...really good up close. Actually, better than...better than the videos if…”_

_Earl gathers his feet under himself, ducking his head to conceal his embarrassment. “I know it’s strange but --”_

_“Early is shy,” Cecil lovingly interrupts. “But he knows how much I love how he can manage being both heroic Scoutmaster, and also helpless when I’m in control of his cock.”_

_Earl glances at his feet, and possibly the cock in question. What the camera fails to showcase, the scientist certainly explains with his body language. His hands are pleating the hem of his lab coat and his teeth are starting to drag his lower lip into hiding. His stare is intense._

_“And I invited Carlos in because I know he would also find you just as interesting,” continues Cecil. “Scientifically and personally?”_

_Carlos nods, dumbly._

_Earl rocks back, shoving his fingers into his pocket as he hunches behind bashful shoulders. “I always did like the attention…”_

_“You do a lot for this town that goes unnoticed,” Carlos comments. “Well, some of us notice you. I have to ask, why the choice of safewords? I have some that Cecil helped me learn, but yours are different.”_

_Earl shrugs. “Clover protects from bad luck.”_

_“Earl had a phase when he was younger where he was always thinking of things like misfortune and superstitions,” Cecil teases. “I would hide clover in things like his shoes and his camping cup before he tested on more difficult badges.”_

_“And I would warn Cecil about when I was uneasy by using the word,” finishes the Scoutmaster. He looks wistful. “Chartreuse is a fun word that’s difficult to spell and explain, so we applied it as a safeword for situations that aren’t dangerous, but possibly requiring adjustment or instruction.”_

_“And olive?” Carlos queries._

_Cecil answers. “I love olives.”_

 

\--

 

The video would continue transmitting their conversation as the men draft their plans and share their hopes and preferences, but the screen freezes and a crippling, looming presence sucks up the light from around the radio host. He stops breathing as the television screen reflects a dark shape. The temperature drops immensely.

 

“Carlos is having a nightmare,” hisses a voice like leather dripping onto timpani cymbals. “You asked for me to alert you?”

 

“Yes?” Cecil peeps, daring not to look. Grateful the being had not spoken before while it had camped under their bed. When the presence does not relent, Cecil pulls the mattress’ blanket around himself and shuffles away without once turning to acknowledge it. “Thank...thank you.”

 

The same irritated sigh chases him up the stairs. Then, Cecil is collected enough to abandon the bedsheets in order to propel himself to the upper levels of their abode. Carlos needs him.

 

In the room, the scientist has burrowed himself into the sheets, entangled by the fabric loosened by the passage of unholy messengers. Cecil finds his boyfriend clawing at the pillows and panting about time.

 

“There’s no...no time left.”

 

The radio host is scrambling onto the bed, calling for Carlos. Speaking loudly that there _is_ time, and the scientist is simply having a bad dream. He is grateful that it is simply old fears that are haunting Carlos, rather than a lingering of Kevin’s influence.

 

The oppressed dreamer flinches when Cecil’s hand falls on him. An elbow swings back, narrowly missing the radio host as Carlos bellows, “Stop the ceremony!”

 

They end up nose to nose, Carlos’ hair wildly framing him and Cecil’s eyes very wide. They are very close.

 

“There is no ceremony,” breathes Cecil. “Carlos, you were dreaming.”

 

“So it...there’s time? None of that was real. There’s…”

 

Cecil waits for the shock to slip from the face. For context to shatter the lingering terror of the dream’s instincts and logic. His expression does not dawn with relief, though.

 

“There’s still time,” assures Cecil.

 

“Oh,” Carlos wilts. “So there is. I...I’m sorry Cecil.”

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” offers the radio host. “Write about it, maybe? I have my journal…”

 

A troubled, stuttered laugh dismisses the suggestion. “No, no...I’m...I’ve forgotten already. I apologize for waking you.”

 

Cecil can recognize the lie. He also knows how to reply in kind. “It’s fine, Carlos. I didn’t mind. It’s fine.”

 

\--

 

When the morning comes, Cecil feels as if he could use another night of sleep. Or, he could continue with the videos. Also, he needs sleep. He would count on a longer morning in bed, but Carlos rolls over, tugging at the sheets.

 

“I’m going to make breakfast,” he announces.

 

Cecil nods, blearily following in the wake of his surprisingly chipper partner in case he needs to help remind Carlos of where the necessary supplies are. Carlos does not ask for help, silently and methodically preparing food enough for two once he dons his apron.

 

The radio host nurses his coffee as he observes the process, looking for signs of Carlos forgetting that Earl is gone. From the table, he can only see Carlos’ back. He imagines a smile. He imagines a frown.

 

He closes his eyes and imagines Earl reading the paper. Carlos asking about spices, inviting the chef to supply input.

 

“There is a blanket on the stairs.”

 

Startling from the fantasy, the radio host glances up to see Carlos bracing on the kitchen table, spatula in hand. He is neither smiling or frowning. He looks empty.

 

“Oh.”

 

“You got up after I did this morning, and the sheet wasn’t there last night.”

 

It’s a good opportunity to remind Carlos that the house is shared with a Faceless Old Woman. That the Secret Police are watching and waiting. That other horrors haunt their home.

 

Cecil drops his gaze, shrugging. He’s too tired to attempt to mislead his boyfriend, and he likely looks it. “I haven’t been sleeping.”

 

“Wandering the house?” Carlos quietly asks.

 

“Spending time in the playroom when you’re asleep,” confesses the radio host. There is a hairline crack in his coffee mug and it is important to stare at it intently. “We made DVDs of our sessions.”

 

“Our…” Carlos draws away. “Oh.”

 

“You supported the idea at its inception,” Cecil sighs. “It helped you familiarize yourself with the lifestyle. Helped you explore your interests from an observer’s perspective.”

 

“You miss what we used to do?” The scientist is slowly nodding his head, curiously hopeful in his inflection.

 

The dragon’s blood from Cecil’s coffee is starting to curdle on his tongue. He says, “I miss Earl.”

 

A silence follows, provoking the radio host to lift his gaze. Carlos is stoney. Then, he smiles tightly, finally breaking the tension. “I think I’m going to go out and do some science today.”

 

“Carlos…you can forget, but I won’t be able to.”

 

Carlos blinks. Then glances towards the same window where he once called out mirages. “Fieldwork, while the sun is still out.”

 

“Good,” Cecil sighs. “That’ll be...good for you.”

 

A corner of Carlos’ enforced grin twitches. The eggs in the frying pan sizzle, and as if he has just been burned by hot oil, the scientist whirls. “Oh, they’re overcooked!”

 

Cecil traces his thumb over the faint indentation, not hungry. Not happy.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

The phrase is small, barely heard over the judgemental frying from the stovetop. Carlos stands over the element, his posture changing. It is a posture Cecil recognizes.

 

Fear.

 

“Carlos?”

 

Cecil starts to rise and Carlos flinches. “I didn’t...I didn’t mean to. I can fix the eggs.”

 

“The eggs aren’t...Carlos, no,” Cecil coaxes. He quickly shelves his own mood in order to quell whatever panic is growing in the other. In climbing to his feet, his finger hooks on the coffee mug’s handle, upsetting it. Coffee spills across the table, lizard’s blood oozing into the veins of the wood.

 

“Oh Smiling Go--,” Carlos exclaims. He slaps a spatula-possessed hand to his mouth to silence himself but the motion splatters Cecil with cooling grease from the tool.

 

The radio host winces, expecting heat.

 

Carlos’ eyes grow wide. “This is my fault. This is all my fault. I’m bad, I’m…”

 

Cecil disregards the advance of the coffee and ignores the stains on his cheek. He falls on Carlos in a wide hug. “It’s not your fault. You’re fine. These are stupid things to be upset about. I love you, it’s okay.”

 

Snuffling against the arguments, Carlos burrows into Cecil’s chest. “I can’t be what you want, Cecil. Please don’t hate me. Don’t send me back.”

 

“Never,” promises Cecil. “You _are_ good, Carlos.”

 

“I don’t want to be,” Carlos hiccups. “It’s not time to be.”

 

Cecil shushes, tightening protectively and smoothing his boyfriend’s back. The eggs smoke on the stove, a lost cause now. “You _are_ good, and when you go out to do science today, you’ll remember that. We can have breakfast at Rosie’s. Small steps. Would you like that?”

 

Carlos nods. “Can...can you get some of my things from the lab and I’ll...I’ll clean up?”

 

“I don’t know what kind of things you’ll need,” Cecil whispers softly.

 

A shrug answers. “I can work with anything you bring up. I just don’t want to go...down there when I have made a mess…”

 

Rubbing circles into the scientist’s tense shoulders, Cecil offers, “I made half the mess…”

 

“I _insist_.”

 

“Oh,” Cecil draws back. “Then...I’ll do my best to find something useful from downstairs.”

 

\--

 

Cecil does not know what to fetch from the laboratory, but he does his best and Carlos acts pleased with the selection. He packs the monitors and gadgets into a bag and the men abandon the smoky kitchen to partake of Rosie’s. Little is said over the meal.

 

“Will you be staying in town limits?” Cecil asks as they try to piece the bill together for their meal. It is still arriving under certain condiments and plates in tattered slices. In the booth behind Carlos, two Secret Police officers listen in.

 

“Mmmhmm,” Carlos hums around his last mouthful. “I’d be a...bad scientist...if I couldn’t find something to science here.”

 

“You’re good,” Cecil assures.

 

Carlos stares at his plate, perhaps willing tentacles to sprout from his fare so he may stab something. “If I’m good…so, what are you going to do with your day?”

 

“Catch up on sleep before my show, I suppose,” shrugs the radio host. “You’ll be careful?”

 

The man across the booth shrugs a shoulder. “A scientist is always fine,” he quietly promises.

 

\--

 

Cecil does lie down after returning home. He takes the stairs leading downwards, though, returning a blanket to the proper mattress. Returning himself there.

 

He shuts his eyes to Earl’s muffled whines, transmitted through time and a television speaker. He tries to forget the stories that he knows exist, about a trussed up ginger. He will not forget the Scout, even ignoring those...those _lies_.

 

He can’t hate Carlos for forgetting.

 

He repeats that: Cecil can’t hate Carlos.

 

He is taking care of Carlos, for Earl. For Night Vale. And as far as the red-head’s instructions have gone, that is all Cecil had to do. Go home. Be safe.

 

They are surrounded by a zealous town. Even now, the scientist is protected by numerous eyes. Kevin will never come here again. Kevin can take nothing more.

 

The alarm on Richard’s phone alerts Cecil to his approaching shift at the station. Carlos has not returned, but there are pistachio shells on the kitchen table spelling out that the other is reuniting with his former team. Cecil leaves some food in the fridge for the scientist’s return before he leaves for work.

 

He reports on some of the science community’s newest finds, expecting Carlos to be home and listening in. As the window grows dark outside of the station, the radio host comments on the necessity of knowing. Of secrets and seeking. Maureen frowns against the studio glass. She taps with Morse code an inquiry into where he is going with such a speech. He doesn’t know. He’s only talking, words slipping out to fill the silence.

 

He is a Voice.

 

He is a Voice in a lonely, dark town. He feels the need to speak, expressing something deep and troubling. He gives word to fragile feelings. He slips symbolism into syllables. He forgets to report the weather, losing track of time.

 

He shuts his eyes, his chest hurting. His eyes burning. His world shaking.

 

His…

 

His world is literally shaking.

 

And when he looks up, there is light pouring through the office. The windows flare gold and blindingly bright. The sudden illumination reveals a forgotten stain never before noticed on the wall. Blood, and Cecil remembers Shauns.

 

He remembers a lot of things, his cry echoing through the microphone as if it were pulled from him from somewhere else.

 

They are all out of time.

 

He is scrambling for a cellphone so he can warn Carlos. He is babbling into his mouthpiece, reporting what he knows. He knows things he should not know.

 

They are all out of time.

 

The Spire is crumbling, this he feels as if he is deeply connected to the town. He sees spots and his teeth clatter. His fingers fumble on a warm keypad, summoning his scientist. He will tell Carlos to stay home, shouting the same for the citizens. Find basements. Find shelter.

 

The Spire, terrorizing and all-powerful, it is crumbling. What could do that? What could…

 

He hopes Carlos is _not_ investigating. He sees branches silhouetted in the other booth, an intern clinging to the base of another intern. He wants someone to cling to, but the phone is a poor substitute. It continues to hum.

 

Then silence.

 

The cover of the desk offers some shadow. The radio host has his microphone in one hand, and Richard’s phone in the other. He is breathing heavily. The sun is warm, fondly showcasing each disturbed and drifting speck of dust.

 

And then there is a click. “Cecil?”

 

Cecil is speaking to both devices when he answers. “Carlos? You weren’t picking up. The Spire…”

 

Carlos sounds different. He says, “We’re out of time. The sun didn’t rise when it should have. I’m...sorry.”

 

“Are you safe?” demands the radio host.

 

“I...I was in the basement when the earthquakes started, Cecil. I’m safe.”

 

Cecil would thank the Spire for that, but the Spire...it’s…

 

“Please...stay safe yourself,” continues the man on the other side.

 

Cecil still sees afterimages when he blinks. He blinks back tears, not sure of why he is crying. He is still terrified, and asking Carlos, “You sound strange. Are you...were you crying?”

 

A cough, or a choking sound. Possibly a laugh answers. “Clover. Look, I love you.”

 

Carlos says nothing more. The connection dies as the world continues to glow where the void should be taking over.

  
Inside Cecil: a void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, finally some action. I apologize one last time for taking three months to tell this. If I were more disciplined, I'd have completed this entirely before sharing.
> 
> Thank you, _all of you_ , for coming along for the ride. 
> 
> The last chapter (and something more) to come within 24 hours.


	14. Chapter 14

“Listeners, I...I must go.”

 

Cecil goes.

 

He climbs from under the cover of his desk and then cuts through the booth where Maureen shakily hands him his coat. She murmurs a question. Something about whether Cecil had been accurate about the Spire.

 

Nothing harms the Spire. Nothing can ever change the Spire. They beg promises and prayers and leave offerings to the Spire.

 

Hearts on paper, drawn by a Scoutmaster...

 

He may have answered Maureen. He cannot remember.

 

The sun shines gaily, untroubled by things like clocks and designated night. Cecil may not even have a shadow as he climbs into his car. The road has large cracks in it. There are confused citizens now daring to drift outside.

 

Then Cecil is in front of his home. The car door slams shut and he knows Carlos will hear him. The front door is locked and he fumbles with his keys, hoping that the handle jiggles before he succeeds.

 

The inside is dark. The shelf lining the living room wall is on the floor again, contents scattered.

 

“That was the earthquake,” Cecil breathes. He calls out, stepping around the mess that the Faceless Old Woman certainly did _not_ make.

 

Nothing.

 

_Is it possible to hear a smile?_

Cecil curses, blaming the profanity on the box he trips on. He starts to knock it aside. A Knight’s Tale.

 

 _“Your darling Elven slut has come to your rescue. I must confess that I’m a little jealous. I wish I had someone as loyal as him!”_ Kevin.

 

“Carlos, are you home?!”

 

 _“I have to tell you, as promising as this is, everyone is divided on how useful the re-education ultimately will be for Carlos. Half of us think it’s working, just taking more time than usual. The other half thinks that StrexCorp’s got instructions buried down there that Carlos is guarding, or repressing, or not even aware of.”_ The Council.

 

“Carlos?”

 

 _“I don’t want Master thinking I’m bad.”_ Carlos.

 

He knows without looking that the car is gone. Earl’s car. He still looks, first refusing to believe the hollow garage. Backing away from the door, into the dark shelter of the house. Upstairs, where the bedroom sits unoccupied. Daylight streams through curtain slats, outlining an open dresser drawer. Some clothes are missing.

 

 _“If you’re good, Carlos, you can go back sooner.”_ Cecil’s own, foolish mouth.

 

Finally, he’s in the basement. The lab is closed off. The playroom light is on and the bottom of the stairway is obstructed by a tripod held together by tape and criss-crossing rope. A recorder sits precariously upon its wounded plastic base. It is a miracle the recent earthquake had not toppled the device.

 

Unsure if he is protecting the integrity of Earl’s tripod or his own fragile sense of being, Cecil delicately carries the apparatus through a room of toys he had meant to dismantle. He connects a wire to the television, aware that the DVDs have been moved from when he had last handled them. They are piled differently.

 

An earthquake could have displaced them.

 

He presses play.

 

“Carlos.”

 

“Hey Cecil,” greets the scientist’s disembodied voice. The camera starts to focus on the bottom few stairs and for a moment, there remains no one keeping the frantic radio host company. Then, the screen allows a weary-looking Carlos to offer solace in a carefully constructed smile. His teeth are hidden. His hair is unkempt and his eyes are deeply lined.

 

Cecil touches the warm surface of the screen.

 

“I’m sorry. I’ll...I’ll probably be gone when you get this. I thought I should try to explain. I’m...I’m deeply conflicted, Cecil. By many things. Concepts like good and bad especially. You promised me things if I was good. You aren’t the only one, though, to promise me things for good behaviour. And I was...I _am_...terrified of being bad. Of _doing_ bad. I’ve been good and bad. At the same time, I’ve been both. There will be...consequences.”

 

Carlos shudders and Cecil’s eyes hurt from sitting so close to the moving picture.

 

“And I tried to put off dealing with it. I pretended...well, you’ll soon see that we’re all out of time. See...I’m a scientist. I am. It’s what I am first. What I’ve always been, first. And I scientifically understand what’s going on here, in my head.”

 

The speaker taps his forehead, looking uncomfortable.

 

“What’s been done to me. How it’s normal for me to avoid thinking about it, or to hate myself or you. Or to embrace the one who got in there. Mast--... _Kevin_. Kevin is in there.”

 

Carlos wavers, his jaw twitching. His eyes staring through the camera as he struggles.

 

“He’s asked me to do things, and I remember. And I am fighting it. I’m not to listening. I kept wondering why you weren’t happy with me. Like a Night Valian, I was trying to forget. Or hide. And I knew you were upset, which you are right to be. Earl shouldn’t be forgotten. He’s...he’s why we’re home. And I hate that. I hate myself. And I never, ever hated you.”

 

Carlos is dragging a labcoat sleeve across his wet eyes.

 

“I’ll understand if you change your mind on me.”

 

“No,” Cecil peeps, tapping at the glass.

 

Carlos goes on, uninterrupted. “I could have stopped this long ago, and I did nothing. I’m so sorry for that. He’s...Kevin’s got a ceremony. A ritual or a...a thing. And if Earl survives…which...which he might. He’s stronger than me. He’s...you’re both so strong. Well, I’m not, and I’m supposed to return to Kevin. To be a good...a good pet. Kevin knows I’m the weak one and I’ll call him. Then you’ll follow. And...and I’m terrified, Cecil. Right now I’m frightened because I cannot bring myself to share this with you directly. Because I cannot bear the thought of returning to...to that.”

 

The pieces are falling into place. Cecil has never seen Carlos so shaken.

 

“But Cecil, I _have_ to go. I need to do this and you have to let me. What’s progressed is entirely my fault, and I believe I can fix it. I hope I can. Not with a war, and not even with science. I learned from you, Cecil. I can fix this with a lie.”

 

A fluttering smile, morphing into a wider, more toothy grin. Carlos transforms and Cecil falls back from the box. He falls back and his throat constricts at the change in his boyfriend.

 

“Kevin is so certain he’ll win. He is so certain I’m weak. He’s expecting a good pet, but he’s not expecting a scientist. Or a Night Valian. I do know two things, Cecil. I love you...”

 

“I love you,” Cecil murmurs. “Don’t do this without me.”

 

“I’ll bring Earl back. It’s...the hardest thing, and I’m scared. But you inspire me, Cecil.”

 

He holds up a watch. His one true time piece, thought lost in the raid.

 

“I found this in my lab. It’s how I know my time’s up,” the scientist confesses. “I leave it to you. It’s with...with Earl’s chair. In the closet where I hid...once hid the drugs. Use it. At least give me a day. Please don’t follow me. Please, Cecil, trust me.”

 

The radio host nods. He nods and watches the camera start to shake. Watches Carlos flutter forwards, trying to reinforce the tripod. A lament is made against time. Somewhere, a radio broadcaster is wondering what could be doing this, hoping a scientist is secure and not chasing after the cause.

 

Carlos knows the cause. His face is grim, frozen before the video stops. Carlos, like Cecil, knows their time is up. Knows he needs to do the difficult thing.

 

The bad thing.

 

Carlos must be good.

 

“You are,” Cecil whispers, imagining a final phone call. Imagining a lonely, uncertain driver. Imagining a brave scientist venturing into a terrible place.

 

Cecil even trusts.

 

He turns the television off and goes to find a working timepiece. It will outline that days have come and gone, and still, Cecil will be patient.

 

Not because he _must_ , but because he chooses to. Carlos is smart, and Earl is strong.

 

And Cecil…

 

_“Is this the spoiled princeling?”_

_  
_ Cecil deserves a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. 
> 
> Jathis' story [**Bringing Them Back**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2362721?view_full_work=true) closes with the result of Carlos' ruse. [**Rituals**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2422247?view_full_work=true) covers the so-called ceremony that Carlos is ~~not~~ thinking of.
> 
> And [**Kevin Wins**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3199559) is an alternate ending scary-fic where...well, Kevin wins. All the disclaimers on that one. 
> 
> Now, in true Marvel movie fashion:
> 
>  
> 
> **DIRTY FUN WITH BOYFRIENDS WILL RETURN**
> 
>  
> 
> ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanksgiving. I looked after my boss' house. It is in the middle of nowhere. I was excited for the opportunity to write, though my expected projects took an unexpected break when this story happened. In a period of a day, I had written over 10,000 words. 
> 
> Currently, I'm working on NaNoWriMo ([feel free to cheer me on](http://nanowrimo.org/participants/dangersocks/novels/domestic-toy-towers)) so while I'm busy with that, expect this story to update every Sunday until December, and then perhaps a higher frequency of new chapters after that. 
> 
> For those concerned over the content/disclaimers: **chapter seven is a scary chapter**. I'll post advisories as necessary, and concerned readers are welcome to ask if they have questions.
> 
> Thanks to [M_Moonshade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade) and [Tygr](http://acidtygr.tumblr.com/) for edits.
> 
> (And dear Jathis, thank you for listening to my awful ideas and making them your own.) For everyone else, you should check out her series: [Dirty Fun With Boyfriends and Master Kevin.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jathis/pseuds/Jathis/series)
> 
> This story is concurrent with those.


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